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OUTRE-MER 

A Pilgrimage Ijeyond tlie Sea 



BY 



HENRY WADSWORTH lONGPElLOW 



Entered at the Post Office, N. Y., ai second-claai matte) 
Copyright, 1863, by John W. Lovell Co. 



NEW-YORK «= 



JOHN-W* LOVELL- CO;^PANY-»- ^») 

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OUTRE-MER : 



A PILGEIMAGE BETOISTD THE SEA. 



BY 



/ 

HENRY WADSWOBTH LOI^GEELLOW. 



I have passed manye landes and manyc yles and contrees, and chcrched manye fulla 
straunge places, and have ben in manye a fulle gode honourable companye. Now I am 
comen home to reste. And thus recordynge the tyme passed, I liave fulfilled these 
Jhynges and putte hem wryten in this boke, as it woulde come into my mynde. 

—Sib Joaar MaumbevuiLJ 




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NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street 



LONGFELLOW'S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN LOVELL'S LIBRARY. 

NO. PRICE. 

1 Hyperion, . . • . • . * . . . 2oc. 

2 Outre-Mer, .....•••• 20c. 
482 Poems, ....•....* 20c 




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NEW YORK. 



Outre-Mer. 



THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 



The cheerful breeze sets fair ; we fill our sail. 
And scud before it. When the critic starts. 
And angrily unties his bags of wind, 
Then we lay to, and let the blast go by. 

HUBDIS. 



Worthy aitd gektle Eeader, — 

I DEDICATE this little book to thee with many fec^is 
and misgivings of heart. Being a stranger to thee, 
and having never administered to thy wants nor to thy 
pleasures, I can ask nothing at thy hands saving the 
common courtesies of life. Perchance, too, what I have 
written will be little to thy taste ; — for it is little in ac- 
cordance with the stirring spirit of the present age. If 
so, I crave thy forbearance for having thought that even 
the busiest mind might not be a stranger to those mo- 
ments of repose, when the clock of time clicks drowsily 



6 TEE EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 

behind the door, and trifles become the amusement of 
the wise and great. 

Besides, what perils await the adventurous author who 
launches forth into the uncertain current of public favor 
in so frail a bark as this ! The very rocking of the tide 
may overset him ; or perad venture some freebooting 
critic, prowling about the great ocean of letters, may 
descry his strange colors, hail him through a gray goose- 
quill, and perhaps sink him without more ado. Indeed, 
the success of. an unknown author is as uncertain as the 
wind. "When a book is first; to appear in the world/"' 
says a celebrated French, writer^ *' one knows not whom 
to consult to leam its destiny. The stars preside not 
over its nativity. Their influences have no operation on 
it ; and the most confident astrolog;ers dare not . foretell 
the diverse risks of fortune it must run." 

It is from such considerations, worthy reader, that I. 
would fain bespeak thy friendly ofiices at the outset. 
But, in asking these, I would not forestall thy good opin- 
ion too far, lest in the sequel I should disappoint thy 
kind wishes. I ask only a welcome and God-speed ; 
hoping, that, when thou hast read these pages, thou wilt 
say to me, in the words of Mck Bottom, the weaver, " L 
shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master 
Cobweb." 

Yerj sincerely thine, 

THE AUTHOR, 



THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER. 



I am a Palmer, as ye se, 

Whiche of my lyfe muche part have spent 

In many a fayre and farre cuhtrie, 

As pilgrims do of good intent. 

Tsk FoUK Ps. 



{< 



LYSTENYTH, ye godely gentylmen, and all that 
ben hereyn ! " I am a pilgrim benighted on my 
way, and crave a shelter till the storm is oyer, and a seat 
by the fireside in this honorable company. As a stranger 
I claim this courtesy at your hands ; and will repay your 
hospitable welcome with tales of the countries I have 
passed through in my pilgrimage. 

This is a custom of the olden time. In the days of 
chivalry and romance, every baron bold, perched aloof in 
his feudal castle, welcomed the stranger to his halls, and 
listened with delight to the pilgrim's tale and the song 
of the troubadour. Both pilgrim and troubadour had 
their tales of wonder from a distant land, embellished with 
magic of Oriental exaggeration. Their salutation was, — 

" Lordyng lystnith to my tale, 
That is meryer than the nightingale." 

The soft luxuriance of the Eastern clime bloomed in the 
song of the bard ; and the wild and romantic tales of re- 
gions so far off as to be regarded as almost a fairy land 
were well suited to the childish credulity of an age when 
what is now called the Old World was in its childhood. 

'i 



8 THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MEB, 

Those times have passed away. The world has grown 
wiser and less credulous ; and the tales which then de- 
lighted delight no longer. But man has not changed 
his nature. He still retains the same curiosity, the same 
love of novelty, the same fondness for romance and tales 
by the chimney-corner, and the same desire of wearing 
put the rainy day and the long winter evening with the 
illusions of fancy and the fairy sketches of the poet's im- 
agination. It is as true now as ever, that 

*' Off talys, and tryfulles, many man tellys ; 
Sume byn trew, and sume byn ellis ; 
A man may dryf e forthe the day that long tyme dwellis 
Wyth harpying, and pipying, and other mery spellis, 
Wyth gle, and wyth game." 

The Pays d'Outre-Mer, or the Land beyond the Sea, is 
a name by which the pilgrims and crusaders of old usu- 
ally designated the Holy Land. I, too, in a certain sense, 
have been a pilgrim of Outre-Mer ; for to my youthful 
imagination the Old World was a kind of Holy Land, 
lying afar off beyond the blue horizon of the ocean ; and 
when its shores first rose upon my sight, looming through 
the hazy atmosphere of the sea, my heart swelled with 
the deep. emotions of the pilgrim, when he sees afar the 
spire which rises above the shrine of his devotion. 

In this my pilgrimage, *^ I have passed many lands and 
countries, and searched many full strange places." I 
have traversed France from Normapdy to Navarre ; 
smoked my pipe in a Flemish inn ; floated through Hol- 
land in a Trekschuit ; trimmed my midnight lamp in a 
German university ; wandered and mused f».mid the classic 
scenes of Italy ; and listened to the gay guitar and merry 
Castanet on the borders of the blue Guadalquivir. The 
recollection of many of the scenes I have pissed through 



THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER, 9 

IS still fresh in my mind ; while the memory of others is 
fast fading away, or is blotted out forever. But now I 
will stay the too busy hand of time, and call back the 
shadowy past. Perchance the old and the wise may 
accuse me of frivolity ; but I see in this fair company the 
bright eye and listening ear of youth, — an age less rigid 
in its censure and more willing to be pleased. '*To 
gentlewomen and their loves is consecrated all the wooimg 
language, allusions to love-passions, and sweet embrace- 
ments feigned by the Muse 'mongst hills and rivers ; 
whatsoever tastes of description, battel, story, abstruse 
antiquity, and law of the kingdome, to the more severe 
critic. To the one, be contenting enjoyments of their 
auspicious desires ; to the other, a happy attendance of 
their chosen Muses. " * 

And now, fair dames and courteous gentlemen, give me 
attentive audience : — 

*'Lordyng lystnith to my tale, 
That is meryer than the nightingale." 



* Selden's Prefatory Discourse to the Notes in Drayton's Poly- 
Olbion. 

T* 



THE NORMAlNr DILIGENCE. • 

The French guides, otherwise called the postilians, have one most diabolicall 
cijstome in their travelling upon the wayes. Diabolicall it may be well called ; 
for, whensoever their horses doe a little anger them, they will say, in their fury, 
Allons, diable,—t\xSit is, Go, thou divel. This I know by mine own experience. 

Coryat's Cbudities. 

IT was early in tlie " leafy month, of June " that I 
travelled through the beautiful province of Nor- 
mandy. As France was the first foreign country I visited, 
everything wore an air of freshness and novelty, which 
pleased my eye, and kept my fancy constantly busy. Life 
was like a dream. It was a luxury to breathe again the 
free air, after having been so long cooped up at sea ; and, 
like a long-imprisoned bird let loose from its cage, my im- 
agination revelled in the freshness and sunshine of the 
morning landscape. 

On every side, valley and hill were covered with a 
carpet of soft velvet green. The birds were singing 
merrily in the trees, and the landscape wore that look of 
gayety so well described in the quaint language of an old 
romance, making the " sad, pensive, and aching heart to 
rejoice, and to throw off mourning and sadness." Here 
and there a cluster of chestnut-trees shaded a thatch- 
roofed cottage, and little patches of vineyard were scat- 
tered on the slope of the hills, mingling their delicate 
green with the deep hues of the early summer grain. 
The whole landscape had a fresh, breezy look. It was 
not hedged in from the highways, but lay open to the eye 
of the traveller, and seemed to welcome him with open 
10 



TBE l^OBMAN DILIGEI^CE. ^ 

arms. Pfelt les&a stranger in the land ; and as my eye 
traced the dusty road winding along through a rich culti- 
vated country, skirted on either side with blossomed fruit- 
trees, and occasionally caught glimpses 6f a little farm- 
house resting in a green hollow and lapped in the bosom 
of 2}lenty, I f elt that I was in a prosperous, hospitable, 
and happy land. 

'I had taken my seat on top of the diligence, in order 
to haye a better view of the country. It was one of those 
ponderous vehicles which totter slowly along the paved 
roads of France, laboring beneath a mountain of trunks 
and bales of all descriptions ; and, like the Trojan horse, 
bore a groaning multitude within it. It was a curious 
and' cumbersome machine, resembling the bodies of three 
coaches placed upon one carriage, with a cabriolet on top 
for outside passengers. On the panels of each door were 
painted the fleurs-de-lis of France, and upon the side of 
the coach, emblazoned in golden characters, ^'Exploita- 
tion Oenerale des Messageries Roy ales des Diligences pour 
le Havre, Rouen, et Paris.^^ 

It would be useless to describe the motley groups thM 
filled the four quarters of this little world. There was 
the dusty tradesman, with green coat and cotton um- 
brella; the sallow ihvahd, in skullcap and cloth shoes; 
the priest in his cassock ; iSie peasant in his frock ; and 
a whole family of squalling children. My felloV-travel- 
lers on top were a gay subaltern, with fierce mustache, 
and a nut-brown village beauty of sweet sixteen. The 
subaltern wore a military undress, and a little blue cloth 
cap, in the shape of a cow-bell, trimmed smartly with 
silver lace, and cocked on one side of his head. The 
brunette was decked out with a staid white Norman cap, 
nicely starched and plaited, and nearly three feet high, 



12 THE NORMAN DILIOENCE. 

a rosary and cross about her neck, a linsey-woolsey gown, 
and wooden shoes. 

The personage who seemed to rule this little world 
with absolute sway was a short, pursy man, with a busy, 
self-satisfied air, and the sonorous title of Motisieur le 
Co7iducteur . As insignia of office, he wore a little round 
fur cap and fur-trimmed jacket ; and carried in his hand 
a small leathern portfolio, containing his way-bill. He 
sat with us on top of the diligence, and with a comic 
gravity issued his mandates to the postilion below, like 
some petty monarch speaking from his throne. In every 
dingy village we thundered through, he had a thousand 
commissions to execute and to receive ; a package to 
throw out on this side, and another to take in on that ; 
a whisper for the landlady at the inn ; a love-letter and a 
kiss for her daughter ; and a wink or a snap of his fingers 
for the chambermaid at the window. Then there were 
so many questions to be asked and answered, while chang- 
ing horses ! Everybody had a word to say. It was 
Monsieur le Conducteur ! here ; Monsieur le Conducteur ! 
there. He was in complete bustle ; till at length crying. 
En route I he ascended the dizzy height, and we lum- 
bered away in a cloud of dust. 

But what most attracted my attention was the grotesque 
appearance of the postilion and the horses. He was a 
comical-looking little fellow, already past the heyday of 
life, with a thin, sharp countenance, to which the smoke 
of tobacco and the fumes of wine had given the dusty 
look of wrinkled parchment. He was equipped in a short 
jacket of purple velvet, set off with a red collar, and 
adorned with silken cord. Tight pantaloons of bright 
yellow leather arrayed his pipe-stem legs, which were 
swallowed up in a huge pair of wooden boots, iron* 



THE N0B3IAN DILIGENCE. 13 

fastened, and armed with long, rattling spurs. His 
shirt-collar was of vast dimensions, and between it and 
the broad brim of his high, bell-crowned, yarnished hat, 
j)rojected an eel-skin queue, with a little tuft of frizzled 
hair, like a powder-puff, at the end, bobbing up and down 
with the motion of the rider, and scattering a white cloud 
around him. 

The horses which drew the diligence were harnessed 
to it with ropes and leather, and in the most uncouth 
manner imaginable. They were five in number, black, 
white, and gray, — as various in size as in color. Their 
tails were braided and tied up with wisps of straw ; and 
when the postilion mounted and cracked his heavy whip, 
off they started : one pulling this way, another that,— 
one on the gallop, another trotting, and the rest dragging 
along at a scrambling pace, between a trot and a walk. 
No sooner did the vehicle get comfortably in motion, than 
the postilion, throwing the reins upon his horse's neck, 
and drawing a flint and steel from one pocket and a short- 
stemmed pipe from another, leisurely struck fire, and 
began to smoke. Ever and anon some part of the rope- 
harness would give way ; Monsieui' le Condudeur from 
on high would thunder forth an oath or two ; a head 
would be popped out at every window ; half a dozen 
voices exclaim at once, "What's .the matter?" and the 
postilion, apostrophizing the dialle as usual, thrust his 
long whip into the leg of his boot, leisurely dismount, 
and, drawing a handful of packthread from his pocket, 
quietly set himself to mend matters in the best way possible. 

In this manner we toiled slowly along the dusty high- 
way. Occasionally the scene was enlivened by a group 
of peasants, driving before them a little ass, laden with 
vegetables for a neighboring market. Then we would 



i'4 THE NORMAN DILIGENCE, 

pass a solitary shepherd, sitting by tne road-Mdie/thfli''a 
shaggy dog at his feet, guarding his flock, and making 
his scanty mear on the contents of his wallet; or per- 
chance a little peasant girl, in wooden shoes, leading a 
cow by a cord attached to her horns, to browse along the 
side of the ditch. Then we wonld all alight to ascend 
some formidable hill on foot, and be escorted up by a 
clamorous group of sturdy mendicants, — annoyed by the 
ceaseless importunity of worthless beggary, or moYed to 
pity by the palsied limbs of the aged, and the sightless 
eyeballs of the blind. 

Occasionally, too, the postilion drew up in front of 'a 
dingy little cabaret, completely overshadowed by wide- 
spreading trees. A lusty grape-vine clambered up boside 
the door ; and a pine-bough was thrust out from a hole 
in the wall. By way of tavemrbush. Upon the froiit of 
the house was generally inscribed in large black letters, 

/'ICI ON" DOi^'NE A BOIRE ET A MAKGER ; ON LOGE A PIED 

ET A cheval"; a sign which maybe thus paraphrased, — 
" Good entertainment for man and beast"; but which was 
once translated by a foreigner, ^^Here they give to cat 
and drink ; they lodge on foot and on horseback ! " 
.Thus one object of curiosity succeeded another; hill, 
yalley, stream, and woodland flitted by me like the shift- 
ing scenes of a magic lantern, and one train of thought 
gave place to another ; till at length, in the after part of 
the day, we entered the broad and shady avenue^ of fine 
old trees which leads to the western gate of Eouen, and a 
few moments afterward were lost in the crowds and con- 
fusion of its narrow streets. 



THE GOLDEN LION INN AT EOUEN. 



Monsieur Tinot. Je veux absolument nn Lion TOr ; parce qu'on dit, Ou allez- 
trous ? AuLion d'Or I— D'ou venez-vous ? DuLion d'Or !— Oil irons-nous ? Au 
Lion d'Or 1— Ou y a-t-il de bon viu ? Au Lion d'Or 1 

La Rose Rouge. 



THIS answer of Monsieur Vinot must have been run- 
ning in my head as the diligence stopped at the Mes- 
sagerie ; for when the porter, who took my luggage, 
said : — 

" Oh allez-vous, Monsieur 9 " 

I answered, without reflection (for, be it said with all 
the veracity of a traveller, at that time I did not know 
there was a Golden Lion in the city), — 

''Au Lion d'Or." 

And so to the Lion d'Or we went. 

The hostess of the Golden Lion received me with a 
courtesy and a smile, rang the house-bell for a servant, 
and told him to take the gentleman's things to number 
thirty-five. I followed him up stairs. One, two, three, 
four, five, six, seven ! Seven stories high, by Our Lady ! 
— I counted them every one ; and when I went down to 
remonstrate, I counted them again ; so that there was no 
possibility of a mistake. Wlien I asked for a lower room, 
the hostess told me the house was full ; and when I spoke 
of going to another hotel, she said she should be so 
very sorry, so desoUe, to have Monsieur leave her, that I 
marched up again to number thirty-five. 

After finding all the fault I could with the chamber, I 
15 



16 THE GOLDEN LION INN AT ROUEN. 

ended, as is generally the case with most men on such 
occasions, by being yery well pleased with it. The only 
thing I could possibly complain of was my being lodged 
in the seventh story, and in the immediate neighborhood 
of a gentleman who was learning to play the French horn. 
But to remunerate me for these disadvantages, my window 
looked down into a market-place, and gave me a distant 
view of the towers of the cathedral, and the ruins of the 
church and abbey of St. Ouen. 

When I had fully prepared myself for a ramble through 
the city, it was already sundown ; and after the heat and 
dust of the day, the freshness of the long evening twi- 
light was delightful. When I enter a new city, I cannot 
rest till I have satisfied the first cravings of curiosity by 
rambling through its streets. Nor can I endure a cice- 
rone, with his eternal " This way. Sir." I never desire to 
be led directly to an object worthy of a traveller's notice, 
but prefer a thousand times to find my own way, and 
come upon it by surprise. This was particularly the case 
at Eouen. It was the first European city of importance 
that I visited. There was an air of antiquity about the 
whole city that breathed of the Middle Ages ; and so 
strong and delightful was the impression that it made 
U23on my youthful imagination, that nothing which I 
afterward saw could either equal or eif ace it. I have since 
passed through that city, but I did not stop. I was 
unwilling to destroy an impression which, even at that 
distant day, is as fresh upon my mind as if it were of 
yesterday. 

With these delightful feelings I rambled on from street 
to street, till at length, after threading a narrow alley, I 
unexpectedly came out in front of the magnificent 
cathedral. If it had suddenly risen from the earth, the 



THE GOLD EN LION INN AT RO UEN. 17 

effect could not liaye been more powerful and instantane= 
ous. It completely overwhelmed my imagination; and 
I stood for a long time motionless, and gazing entranced 
upon the stupendous edifice. I had before seen no speci- 
men of Gothic architecture, save the remains of a little 
church at Havre ; and the massive towers before me, the 
lofty windows of stained glass, the low portal, with its 
receding arches and rude statues, all produced upon my 
untravelled mind an impression of awful sublimity. 
When I entered the church, the impression was still more 
acep and solemn. It was the hour of vespers. The 
religious twilight of the place, the lamps that burned on 
the distant altar, the kneeling crowd, the tinkling bell, 
and the chant of the evening service that rolled along the 
vaulted roof in broken and repeated echoes, filled me 
with new and intense emotions. When I gazed on the 
stupendous architecture of the church, the huge columns 
that the eye followed up till they Avere lost in the gather- 
ing dusk of the arches above, the long and shadowy aisles, 
the statues of saints and martyrs that stood in every 
recess, the figures of armed knights upon the tombs, the 
uncertain light that stole through the painted windows 
of each little chapel, and the form of the cowled and 
solitary monk, kneeling at the shrine of his favorite saint, 
or passing between the lofty columns of the church, — all 
I had read of, but had not seen, — I was transported back 
to the Dark Ages, and felt as I shall never feel again. 

On the following day, I visited the remains of an old 
palace, built by Edward the Third, now occupied as the 
Palais de Justice, and the ruins of the church and mon- 
astery of Saint Antoine. I sav/ the hole in the tower 
where the ponderous bell of the abbey fell through ; and 
took a peep at the curious illuminated manuscript of 



18 THE GOLDEN LION INN AT RO UEN 

m 

Daniel d'Aubonne in the public library. The remainder 
of the morning was spent in visiting the ruins of the 
ancient abbey of St. Ouen, which is now transformed into 
the Hotel de Ville, and in strolling through its beautiful 
gardens, dreaming of the present and the past, and given 
up to *^ a melancholy of my own." 

At the Table d'HSte of the Golden Lion, I fell into 
conyersation with an elderly gentleman, who proved to 
be a great antiquarian, and thoroughly read in all the 
forgotten lore of the city. As our tastes were somewhat 
similar, we were soon upon very friendly terms ; and after 
dinner we strolled out to visit some remarkable localities, 
and took the gloria together in the Chevalier Bayard. 

When we returned to the Golden Lion, he entertained 
me with many curious stories of the spots we had been 
visiting. Among others, he related the following singu- 
lar adventure of a monk of the abbey of St. Antoine, 
which amused me so much that I cannot refrain from 
presenting it to my readers. I will not, however, vouch 
for the truth of the story ; for that the antiquarian him- 
self would not do. He said he found it in an ancient 
manuscript of the Middle Ages, in the archives of the 
public library ; and I give it as it was told me, without 
Xiote or comment. 



MAKTIK FRANC AND THE MONK OF 
SAINT ANTHONY.* 

Seignor, oiez une merveille, 
C'onquea n'oistes sa pareille, 
Que je vos vueil dire et conter ; 
Or metez cuer a Pescouter. 

Fabliau du Bouchieb d'Abbevills. 

Lystyn Lords^ngs to my tale, 

And ye shall here of one story. 
Is better than any wyne or ale, 

That ever was made in this cuntry. 

Ancient Metrical Romance. 

IN times of old, tliero lived ' in tlie city of Rouen a 
tradesman named Martin J'ranc, who, by a series of 
misfortunes, had been reduced from opulence to poverty. 
But poverty, which generally makes men humble and 
laborious, only served to make him proud and lazy ; and 
in proportion as he grew poorer and poorer, he grew also 
prouder and lazier. He contrived, however, to live along 
from day to day, by now and then pawning a silken robe 

. * The outlines of the following- tale were taken from a Norman 
Fabliau of the thirteenth century, entitled Le Segretain . Iloine. 
To judge by the numerous imitations of this story which still exist 
in old Norman poetry, it seems to have been a prodigious favorite 
in its day, and to have passed through as many hands as did the 
body of Friar Gui. It probably had its origin in " The Story of 
the Little Hunchback," a tale of the Arabian Nights ; and in mod- 
em times has been imitated in the poetic tale of " The Knight and 
the Friar," by George Colman. Unfortunately, I was not aware of 
this circumstance till after the first publication of the following 
Dages. 

19 



20 3IARTIN FRANC AND 

of his wife, or selling a silver spoon, or some other trifle, 
saved from the wreck of his better fortunes ; and passed 
his time pleasantly enough in loitering about the market- 
place, and walking up and down on the sunny side of 
the street. 

The fair Marguerite, his wife, was celebrated through 
the whole city for her beauty, her wit, and her virtue. 
She was a brunette, with the blackest eye, the whitest 
teeth, and the ripest nut-brown cheek in all Normandy ; 
her figure was tall and stately, her hands and feet most 
delicately moulded, and her swimming gait like the mo- 
tion of a swan. In happier days she had been the de- 
light of the richest tradesmen in the city, and the envy 
of the fairest dames ; and when she became poor, her 
fame was not a little increased by her cruelty to several 
substantial burghers, who, without consulting their wives, 
had generously offered to stand between her husband and 
bankruptcy, and do all in their power to raise a worthy 
and respectable family. 

The friends of Martin Franc, like the friends of many 
a ruined man before and since, deserted him in the day 
of adversity. Of all that had eaten his dinners, and 
drunk his wine, and philandered with his wife, none 
sought the harrow alley and humble dwelling of the 
broken tradesman save one, and that one was Friar Gui, 
the sacristan of the abbey of St. Anthony. He was a lit- 
tle, jolly, red-faced friar, with a leer in his eye, and 
rather 3, naughty reputation for' a man of his cloth ; 
but as he was a kind of travelling gazette, and always 
brought the latest news and gossip of the city, and be- 
sides was the only person that condescended to visit the 
house of Martin Franc, — in fine,- for the want of a better, 
he v\^as considered in the light of a friend. 



THE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY. "Zl 

In these constant assiduities. Friar Gui had his secret 
motiyes, of which the single heart of Martin Franc was 
entirely unsuspicious. The keener eye of his wife, how- 
eyer, soon discoyered two faces under the hood. She 
obseryed that the friar generally timed his yisits so as to 
be at the house when Martin Franc was not at home — 
that he seemed to prefer the edge of the eyening ; and 
that as his yisits became more frequent, he alwajs had 
some little apology ready ; such as *' being obliged to pass 
that way, he could not go by the door without just drop- 
ping in to see how the good man Martin did." Occa- 
sionally, too, he yentured to bring her some ghostly pres- 
ent — such as a picture of the Madonna and Child, or one 
of those little naked images which are hawked about the 
streets at the natiyity. Though the object of all this 
was but too obyious, yet the fair Marguerite perseyered in 
misconstruing the friar's intentions, and in dexterously 
turning aside any expressions of gallantry that fell from 
his yenerable lips. In this way Friar Gui was for a long 
time kept at bay ; and Martin Franc preserved in the day 
of poyerty and distress that consolation of all this world's 
afi9.ictions, — a friend. But, finally, things came to such 
a pass, that the honest tradesman opened his eyes, and 
wondered he had been asleep so long. Whereupon he 
was irreyerent enough to tweak the nose of Friar Gui, 
and then to thrust him into the street by the shoulders. 

Meanwhile the times gi^ew worse and worse. One 
family relic followed another,^ — the last silken robe was 
pawned, the last silyer spoon sold ; until at length poor 
Martin Franc was forced to " drag the deyil by the tail " ; 
in other words, beggary stared him full in the face. But 
the fair Marguerite did not even then despair. In those 
days a belief in the immediate guardianship of the sainte 



22 MARTIN FRANC ANb 

was much more strong and prevalent than in these lewd 
and degenerate times ; and as there seemed no great 
probability of improving their condition by any lucky 
change which could be brought about by mere human 
agency, she determined to try what could be done by in- 
tercession with the patron saint of her husband. Ac- 
cordingly she repaired one evening to the abbey of St. 
Anthony, to place a votive candle and offer her prayer at 
the altar, which stood in the little chapel dedicated to 
St. Martin. • • 

It was alread}^ sufiddwh when she reached the church, 
and the evening service of the Virgin had commenced. 
A clotid of incense floated before the altar of the Ma- 
donna, and the organ rolled its deep melody along the 
dim arches of the church. Marguerite mingled with the 
kneeling cro^ d, and repeated the responses in Latin, 
with as much devotion as the most learned clerk of the 
convent. When the service was over, she repaired to the 
chapel of St; Martin, and lighting her votive taper at the 
silver lamp which burned before his altar, knelt down in 
a retired part of the chapel, and, with tears in her eyes, 
besought the saint for aid and protection. While she 
was thus engaged, the church became gradually deserted, 
till she was left, as she thought, alone. But in this she 
was mistaken ; for, when she arose to depart, the portly 
figure of Friar G-ui was standing close at her elbow ! 

"A fair good evening to my lady M{irgtierite,"'said 
he, significantly. " St. Martin has heard your prayer, 
and sent me to relieve your poverty." 

"Then, by the Virgin," replied she, ''the good saint 
is not very fastidious in the chdice 6f his messengers." 

" Nay, goodwife," answered the friar, not at all abashed 
by this ungracious reply, " if the tidings are good, what 



THE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY 23 

matters it who the messenger may be ? And how does 
Martin Franc these days ? " 

"He is well. Sir Gui," replied Marguerite ; "and were 
he present, I doubt not would thank you heartily for the 
interest you still take in him and his poor wife." 

"He has done me wrong," continued the friar, with- 
out seeming to notice the pointedness of Marguerite's 
reply. " But it is our duty to forgiye our enemies ; and 
so let the past be forgotten. I know that he is in want. 
Here, take this to him, and tell him I am still his friend." 

So saying, he drew a small purse fi'om the sleeye of his 
habit, and proffered it to his companion. I know not 
whether it were a suggestion of St. Martin, but true it is 
that the fair lady of Martin Franc seemed to lend a more 
willing ear to the earnest whispers of the friar. At length 
she said, — 

" Put up your purse ; to-day I can neither deliver your 
gift nor your message. Martin Franc has gone from 
home." 

"Then keep it for yourself." 

" Nay, Sir Monk," replied Marguerite, casting down 
her eyes ; " I can take no bribes here in the church, and 
in the very chapel of my husband's patron saint. You 
shall bring it to me at my house, an you will. Sir Gui. " 

The friar put up the purse, and the conversation which 
followed was in a low and indistinct undertone, audible 
only to the ears for which it was intended. At length the 
interview ceased ; and — woman ! — the last words that 
the virtuous Marguerite uttered, as she glided from the 
church, were, — 

" To-night ; — when the abbey-clock strikes twelve ;— 
remember !" 

It would be useless to relate how impatiently the friar 



24 MARTIN FRANC AND 

counred tlie hours and the quarters as they chimed from 
the ancient tower of the abbey, while he paced to and fro 
along the gloomy cloister. At length the appointed hour 
approached ; and just before the convtnt-bell sent forth 
its summons to call the friars of St. Anthony to their 
midnight devotions, a figure with a cowl stole out of a 
postern-gate, and, joassing silently along the deserted 
streets, soon turned into the little alley which led to the 
dwelling of Martin Franc. It was none other than Friar 
Gui. He rapped softly at the tradesman's door, and 
casting a look up and down the street, as if to assure 
himself that his motions were unobserved, slipped into 
the house. 

" Has Martin Franc returned ? " inquired he in a 
whisper. 

"No," answered the sweet voice of his wife ; "he will 
not be back to-night." 

"Then all good angels befriend us!" continued the 
monk, endeavoring to take her hand. 

"Not so, Sir Monk," said she, disengaging herself. 
"You forget the conditions of our meeting." 

The friar paused a moment ; and then, drawing a heavy 
leathern purse from his girdle, he threw it upon the table ; 
at the same moment a footstep was heard behind him, 
and a heavy blow from a club threw him prostrate upon 
the floor. It came from the strong arm of Martin Franc 
himself ! 

It is hardly necessary to say that his absence was 
feigned. His wife had invented the story to decoy the 
lewd monk, and thereby to keep her husband from 
beggary, and to relieve herself, once for all, from the 
importunities of a false friend. At first Martin Franc 
would not listen to the proposition ; but at length he 



THE MONK OF 8T. AlfTROWT. 25 

yielded to the urgent entreaties of his wife ; and the plan 
finally agreed upon was, that Friar Gui, after leaving his 
purse behind him, should be sent back to the convent 
with a severer discipline than his shoulders had ever re- 
ceived from any penitence of his own. 

The affair, however, took a more serious turn than was 
intended ; for, when they tried to raise the friar from the 
ground, — ^he was dead. The blow aimed at his shoulders 
fell upon his shaven crown ; and, in the excitement of the 
moment, Martin Franc had dealt a heavier stroke than 
he intended. Amid the grief and consternation which 
followed this discovery, the quick imagination of his wife 
suggested an expedient of safety. A bunch of keys at the 
friar's girdle caught her eye. Hastily unfastening the 
ring, she gave the keys to her husband, exclaiming, — 

" For the holy Virgin's sake, be quick ! One of these 
keys^ unlocks the postern gate of the convent-garden. 
Carry the body thither, and leave it among the trees ! " 

Martin Franc threw the dead body of the monk across 
his shoulders, and with a heavy heart took the way to the 
abbey. It was a clear, starry night ; and though the 
moon had not yet risen, her light was in the sky, and 
came reflected down in a soft twilight upon earth. Not 
a sound was heard through all the long and solitary 
streets, save at intervals the distant crowing of a cock, 
or the melancholy hoot of an owl from the lofty tower of 
the abbey. The silence weighed like an accusing spirit 
upon the guilty conscience of Martin Franc. He started 
at the sound of his own breathing, as he panted under 
the heavy burden of the monk's body ; and if, perchance, 
a bat flitted near him on drowsy wings, he paused, and 
his heart beat audibly with terror ; such cowards does 
conscience make of even the most courageous. At length he 



26 MARTIN FRANC AND 

reached the garden-wall of the abbey, opened the postern- 
gate with the key, and, bearing the monk into the garden, 
seated him upon a stone bench by the edge of the fountain, 
with his head resting against, a column, upon which was 
sculptured an image of the Madonna. He then replaced 
the bunch of keys at the monk's girdle, and returned 
home with hasty steps. 

When the prior of the convent, to whom the repeated 
delinquencies of Friar Gui were but too well known, ob- 
served that he was again absent from his post at midnight 
pirayers, he waxed exceedingly angry ; and no sooner 
were the duties of the chapel finished, than he sent a 
monk in j^ursuit of the truant sacristan, summoning him 
to appear immediately at his cell. By chance it hap- 
pened that the monk chosen for this duty was a bitter 
enemy of Friar Gui ; and very shrewdly supposing 
that the sacristan had stolen out of the garden-gate on 
some midnight adventure, he took that direction in 
pursuit. The moon was just climbing the convent- 
wall, and threw its silvery light through the trees of the 
garden, and oil the sparkling waters of the fountain, that 
fell with a soft lulling sound into the deep basin below. 
As the monk passed on his way, he stopped to quench his 
thirst with a draught of the cool water, and was turning 
to depart, when his eye ca^ught the motionless form of the 
sacristan, sitting erect in the shadow of the stone 
column. 

" How is this. Friar Gui ? " quoth the monk. '' Is 
this the place to be sleeping at midnight, when the 
brotherhood are all in their dormitories ? " 

Friar Gui made no answer. 

*^IJp, up! thou eternal sleeper, and do penance for 
thy negligence. The prior calls for thee at his cell ! " 



THE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY, 27 

continaed the monk, growing angry, and shaking the 
eacristan.by the shoulder. 

But still no answer. 

^^Then, by Saint Anthony, I'll wake thee ! So, so I 
SirGui,!" 

And saying this, he dealt the sacristan a heavy box on 
the ear. The body bent slowly forward from its, erect 
position, and giving a headlong pUinge, sank with ^ 
heavy splash into the basin of the fountain. The monk 
waited a few moments in expectation of seeing Friar Gui 
rise dripping from his cold bath ; but he waited in vain ; 
for he lay motionless at the bottom of the basin, — his eyes 
open, and his ghastly fajCe distorted by the ripples of the 
water. With a beating heart the . monk stooped down, 
and, grasping the skirt of the sacristan's habit, at length 
succeeded; in drawing him from the w.ater. All efforts, 
however, to resuscitate him were unavailing. The monk 
was filled with, terror, not doubting that the friar had 
died untimely by his hand ; and as the animosity between 
them w,as no seercit^ in the convent, he feared that, when 
the deed was known, he should be accused of wilful 
murder. He therefore looked round for an expedient to 
relieve himself from the dead body ; and the well-known 
character of the sacristan soon suggested one. He de- 
termined to carry the body to the house of th^, mo^t 
noted beauty of Eouen, and leave it on the door-stej) ; so 
that all suspicion of the murder might fall upon the 
shoulders of some. jealous husband. The beauty of- Mar- 
tin Franc's wife had penetrated even the thick walls qf 
the convent, and there was not a f riai* in the whole abbey 
of Saint Anthony who had not done penance for his tru- 
ant imagination. Accordingly, the dead body of Friar 
Gui was laid upon the moftJ|.'s., l^r^^ffy shoulders, q^rxied 



38 MARTIN FRANC AND 

back to the house of Mairtiii Franc, and placed in an ereot 
position against the door. The monk knocked loud and 
long ; and then, gliding through a by-lane, stole back to 
the convent. 

A troubled conscience would not suffer Martin Franc 
and his wife to close their eyes ; but they lay awake 
lamenting the doleful events of the night. The knock at 
the door sounded like a death- knell in their ears. It still 
continued at intervals, rap — rap — rap ! — with a dull, low 
sound, as if something heavy were swinging against the 
panel ; for the wind had risen during the night, and every 
angry gust that swept down the alley swung the arms of 
the lifeless sacristan against the door. At length Martin 
Franc mustered courage enough to dress himself and go 
down, while his wife followed him with a lamp in her 
hand : but no sooner had he lifted the latch, than the pon- 
derous body of Friar Grui fell stark and heavy into his arms. 

** Jesu Maria ! " exclaimed Marguerite, crossing herself ; 
*' here is the monk again ! " 

'^ Yes, and dripping wet, as if he had just been dragged 
out of the river ! " 

^^0, we are betrayed, betrayed ! " exclaimed Marguerite 
in agony. 

" Then the Devil himself has betrayed us," replied 
Martin Franc, disengaging himself from the embrace of 
the sacristan ; " for I met not a living being ; the whole 
city was as silent as the grave." 

'^ Holy Saint Martin defend us ! " continued his ter- 
rified wife. ^^ Here, take this scapulary to guard you from 
the Evil One ; and lose no time. You must throw the 
body into the river, or we are lost ! Holy Virgin ! How 
bright the moon shines ! " 

Saying this, she threw round his neck a scapulary, with 



TEE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY. 29 

tlie figure of a cross on one end, and an image of the Vir- 
gin on tlie other ; and Martin Franc again took the dead 
friar upon his shoulders, and with fearful misgivings 
departed on his dismal errand. He kept as much as pos- 
sible in the shadow of the houses, and had nearly reached 
the quay, when suddenly he thought he heard footsteps 
behind him. He stopped to listen ; it was no mistake ; 
they came along the pavement, tramp, tramp ! and every 
step grew louder and nearer. Martin Franc tried to 
quicken his pace, — but in vain : his knees smote together, 
and he staggered against the wall. His hand relaxed its 
grasp, and the monk slid from his back and stood ghastly 
and straight beside him, supported by chance against the 
shoulder of his bearer. At that moment a man came 
round the corner, tottering beneath the weight of a huge 
sack. As his head was bent downwards, he did not per- 
ceive Martin Franc till he w^as close upon him ; and when, 
on looking up, he saw two figures standing motionless in 
the shadow of the wall, he thought himself waylaid, and, 
without waiting to be assaulted, dropped the sack from 
his shoulders and ran off at full sj)eed. The sack fell 
heavily on the pavement, and directly at the feet of 
Martin Franc. In the fall the string was broken ; and 
out came the bloody head, not of a dead monk, as it first 
seemed to the excited imagination of Martin Franc, but 
of a dead hog ! When the terror and surprise caused by 
this singular event had a little subsided, an idea came into 
the mind of Martin Franc, very similar to what would have 
come into the mind of almost any person in similar cir- 
cumstances. He took the hog out of the sack, and put- 
ting the body of the monk into its place, secured it well 
with the remnants of the broken string, and "^hen hurried 
homeward with the hog upon his shoulders. 



so MARTIN FRANC AND 

He was hardly out of sight when the man of the sack 
returned, accompanied by two others. They were sur: 
prised to find; the sapk still lying on, the ground, with no 
one near it, and began to jeer the former bearer, telling 
him he had been frightened at his own shadow on the 
wall. Then one of them took the sack upon his shoulders, 
without the least suspicion of the change that had been 
made in its contents, and all three disappeared. 

Now it happened that the city of Rouen was at that time 
infested by three street robbers, who T^alked in darkness 
like the pestilence, and always carried the plunder of 
their midnight marauding to the Tete-de-Boeuf, a littj^_ 
tavern in one of the darkest and narrowest, lanes of th^^ 
city. The host of the Tete-de-Boeuf was privy to all theii 
schemes, and had an equal share in the profits of theii 
nightly excursions. He gave a helping hand, too, by the 
length of his bills, and by plundering the pockets of any 
chance traveller that was luckless enough to sleep undei 
his roof. 

On the night of the disastrous adventure of Friar Gui, 
this little marauding party had been prowling about the 
city until a late hour, without finding anything to reward 
their labors. At length, however, they chanced, to spy a 
hog, hanging under a shed in a butcher's yard, in readf^ 
ne^s f or the next day's market ; and as they were not very 
fastidious in selecting their plunder, but, on the contrary, 
rather addicted to taking whsitever they could, lay their 
hands pri, the hog was straightway purloined, tl^rust. ii|to 
a large sack, and sent to the Tete-de-Boeuf on the. shoul- 
ders of one of the party, while the other two contiiii:|.e,d 
their nocturnal excursion. It was this perspi; Tyho had 
been so terrified at the appearance of Martin Er^nc and 
the dead monk ; and as this encounter had interrupted 



THE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY. Zl 

%ik further operations of the party, the dawn of day 
being now near at hand, they all repaired to their gloomy 
den in the Tete-de-Boeuf. The host was impatiently 
waiting their return ; and, asking what plunder they had 
brought with them, proceeded without delay to remoye it 
from the sack. The first thing that presented itself, on 
untying the string, was the monk's hood. 

" The devil take the devil ! " cried the host, as he 
opened the neck of the sack ; ^^ what's this ? Your hog 
has caught a cowl ! " 

*' The poor devil has become disgusted with the world, 
iand turned monk ! " said he who held the light, a little 
surprised at seeing the head covered with a coarse gray 
doth. 

"Sure enough he has," exclaimed another, starting 
Ijack in dismay, as the shaven cro^vn and ghastly face of 
the friar appeared. " Holy St. Benedict be with us ! It 
is a monk stark dead ! " 

"A dead monk, indeed !" said a third, with an in- 
credulous shake of the head : "how could a dead monk 
get into this sack ? No, no; there is some diablerie in 
this. I have heard it said that Satan can take any shape 
he pleases ; and you may rely upon it this is Satan him- 
self, who has taken the shape of a monk to get us all 
hanged. " 

" Then we had better kill the devil than have the devil 
kill us!" replied the host, crossing himself; "and the 
sooner we do it the better ; for it is now daylight, and 
the people will soon be passing in the street." 

" So say I," rejoined the man of magic ; " and my 
advice is, to take him to the butcher's yard, and hang 
him up in the place where we found the hog. " 

This projDosition so pleased the others that it was 



32 MARTIN FEANG AND 

executed without delay. They carried the friar to th© 
butcher's house, and, passing a strong cord round his neck, 
suspended him to a beam in the shed, and there left him. 

When the night was at length past, and daylight began 
to peep into the eastern windows of the city, the butcher 
arose, and prepared himself for ruarket. He was casting 
up in his mind what the hog would bring at his stall, 
when, looking upward, lo! in its j^lace he recognized the 
dead body of Friar Gui. 

*^ By St. Dennis!" quoth the butcher, ^'1 always 
feared that this friar would not die quietly in his cell ; 
but I never thought I should find him hanging under my 
own roof. This must not be ; it will be said that I mur- 
dered him, and I shall pay for it with my life. I must 
contrive some way to get rid of him." 

So saying, he called his man, and, showing him what 
had been done, asked him how he should dispose of the 
body so that he might not be accused of murder. The 
man who was of a ready wit, reflected a moment, and then 
answered,— 

*^ This is indeed a difficult matter ; but there is no evil 
without its remedyc We will place the friar on horse- 
back—" 

" What ! a dead man on horseback ? — impossible ! " 
interrupted the butcher. " Who ever heard of a dead 
man on horseback ! " 

'*Hear me out, and then judge. We must place the 
body on horseback as well as we may, and bind it fast 
with cords ; and then set the horse loose in the street, 
and pursue after him, crying out that the monk has 
stolen the horse. Thus all who meet him will strike 
him with their staves as he passes, and it will be thought 
that he came to his death in that way." 



THE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY, 33 

Tliougli this seemed to the butcJier rather a mad proj- 
ect, yet, as no better one offered itself at the moment, 
and there was no time for reflection, mad as the project 
was, they determined to put it into execution. Accord- 
'ngly the butcher's horse was brought out, and the friar 
vYas bound upon his back, and with much difficulty fixed 
in an upright position. The butcher then gave the horse 
a blow upon the crupper with his staff, which set him into 
a smart galloj) down the street, and he and his man joined 
in pursuit, crying, — 

" Stop thief ! Stop thief! The friar has stolen my horse !" 
As it was now sunrise, the streets were full of people,, 
— peasants, driving their goods to market, and citizens 
going to their daily avocations. When they saw the friar 
dashing at full speed down the street, they joined in the 
cry of '^ Stop thief ! — Stop that horse ! " and many who 
endeavored to seize the bridle, as the friar passed them 
at full speed, were thrown upon the pavement, and 
trampled under foot ; others joined in the halloo and the 
pursuit ; but this only served to quicl^Ti the gallop of 
the frightened steed, who dashed down one street and up 
another like the wind, with two or three mounted citi- 
zens clattering in full cry at his heels. At length they 
reached the market-place. The people scattered right? 
and left in dismay ; and the steed and rider dashed on- 
ward, overthrowing in their course men and women, and 
stalls, and piles of merchandise, and sweeping away like 
a whirlwind. Tramp — tramp — tramp ! they clattered on ; 
they had distanced all jmrsuit. They reached the quay ; 
the wide pavement was cleared at a bound, — one more 
wild leap, — and splash ! — both horse and rider sank into 
the rapid current of the river,— swept down the stream, 
'—and were seen no more ! 
2* 



THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 



II n'est tel plaisir 
Que d'estre a gesir 
Parmy les beaux champs, 
L'herbe verde choisir, 
Et prendre bon temps. 

Martial D'AuTERGjns. 



THE sultry heat of summer always brings with it, 
to the idler and the man of leisure, a longing for 
the leafy shade and the green luxuriance of the country. 
It is pleasant to interchange the din of the city, the 
moYement of the crowd, and the gossip of society, with 
the silence of the hamlet, the quiet seclusion of the grove, 
and the gossip of a woodland brook. As is sung in the 
old baUad of Eobin Hood, — 

" In soraer, when the shawes be sbeyn, 

And leves be large and long, 
Hit is full mery in feyre foreste, 

To here the foiilys song ; 
To se the dere draw to the dale 

And leve the hilles hee. 
And shadow hem in the leves grene, 

Vnder the grene wode tre. *' 

It was a feeling of this kind that prompted me, during 
my residence in the North of France, to pass one of the 
summer months at Auteuil, the pleasantest of the many 
little villages that lie in the immediate vicinity of the 
metropolis. It is situated on the outskirts of the Bois de 
34 



THE VILLAGE OF A UTEUIL. 35 

•Boulogne, a wood of some extent, in wliose gi-een alleys 
the dusty cit enjoys the luxury of an evening drive, and 
gentlemen meet in the morning to give each other satis- 
faction in the usual way. A cross-road, skirted with 
green hedge-rows, and overshadowed by tail poplars, leads 
you from the noisy highway of St. Cloud and Versailles 
to the still retirement of this suburban hamlet. On 
either side the eye discovers old chateaux amid the trees, 
and green parks, whose pleasant shades recall a thousand 
: jiiages of La Fontaine, Racine, and Moliere ; and on an 
eminence^ overlooking- the windings of the Seine, and 
pfiving a f3eautiiul though aistazit; yiew of the domes and 
gardens of PariS; rise« ti}^ village oi Passy^ Jsong tlie resi- 
dence of our countrymen EranKiin and Ooun^ Rumford, 

I took up my abode at a mats on de sante ; no^. thai 1 
was a valetudinarian, but because I there found some one 
to whom I could whisper, '' How sweet is solitude ! " 
Behind the house was a garden filled with fruit-trees of 
various kinds, and adorned with gravel-walks and gi'een 
arbors, furnished with tables and rustic seats, for the re- 
pose of the invalid and the sleep of the indolent. Hera 
the inmates of the rural hospital met on common ground, 
to breathe the invigorating air of morning, and wliile 
away the lazy noon or vacant evening with tales of the 
sick chamber. 

The establishment was kept by Dr. Dentdelion, a dried- 
up little fellow, with red hair, a sandy complexion, and 
the physiognomy and gestures of a monkey. His char- 
acter corresponded to his outward lineaments ; for he 
had all a monkey's busy and curious impertinence. Nev- 
ertheless, such as he was, the village ^sculapius strutted 
forth the little great man of Auteuii. The peasants 
looked up to him as to an oracle ; he contrived to be at 



36 TME VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL. 

the head of everytliing, and laid claim to the credit of 
all public improvements in the Tillage ; in fine, he was a 
great man on a small scale. ., m ■> ! ^ . , , 

It was within the dingy walls of this little potentate's 
imperial palace that I chose my country residence. I 
had a chamber in the second story, with a solitary win- 
dov/, which looked upon the street, and gave me a peep 
into a neighbor's garden. This I esteemed a gi'eat privi- 
lege ; for, as a stranger, I desired to see all that was pass^ 
ing out of doors ; and the sight of green trees, though 
growing on another man's ground, is always a blessing. 
Within doors — had I been disposed to quarrel with my 
household gods — I might have taken some objection to 
my neighborhood ; for, on one side of me was a consump- 
tive patient, whose graveyard cough drove me from my 
chamber by day ; and on the other, an English colonel, 
whose incoherent ravings, in the delirium of a high and 
obstinate fever, often broke my slumbers by night ; but I 
found ample amends for these inconveniences in the soci- 
ety of those who were so little indisposed as hardly to 
know what ailed them, and those who, in health them- 
selves, had accompanied a friend or relative to the shades 
of the country in pursuit of it. To these I am indebted 
for much courtesy ; and particularly to one who, if these 
pages sliould ever meet her eye, will not, I hope, be un- 
willing to accept this slight memorial of a former friend- 
ship. 

It was, however, to the Bois de Boulogne that I looked 
for my principal recreation. There I took my solitary 
walk, morning and evening ; or, mounted on a little 
mouse-colored donkey, paced demurely along the wood- 
land pathway. I had a favorite seat beneath the shadow 
of a venerable oak, one of the few hoary patriarchs of the 



TffE VILLAGE OF A UTEUIL. -^ 

wood which had survived the bivouacs of the allied arm- 
ies. It stood upon the brink of a little glassy pool, whose 
tranquil bosom was the image of a quiet and secluded life, 
and stretched its parental arms over a rustic bench, that 
had been constructed beneath it for the accommodation 
of the foot-traveller, or, perchance, some idle dreamer 
like myself. It seemed to look round with a lordly air 
upon its old hereditary domain, whose stillness was no 
longer broken by the tap of the martial drum, nor the 
discordant clang of arms ; and, as the breeze whispered 
among its branches, it seemed to be holding fi'iendly col- 
loquies with a few of its venerable contemporaries, who 
stooped from the opposite bank of the pool, nodding 
gravely now and then, and ogling themselves, with a sigh 
in the mirror below. 

In this quiet haunt of rural repose I used to sit at 
noon, hear the birds sing, and *' possess myself in much 
quietness." Just at my feet lay the little silver pool, 
with the sky and the woods painted in its mimic vault, 
and occasionally the image of a bird, or the soft, watery 
outline of a cloud, floating silently through its sunny 
hollows. The water-Hly spread its broad, green leaves 
on the surface, and rocked to sleep a little world of in- 
sect life in its golden cradle. Sometimes a wander- 
ing leaf came floating and wavering downward, and set- 
tled on the water ; then a vagabond insect would 
break the smooth surface into a thousand ripples, or a 
green-coated frog slide from the bank, and, plump ! dive 
headlong to the bottom. ,1;^ 

I entered, too, with some enthusiasm, into all the rural 
sports and merrimakes of the village. The holidays were 
so many little eras of mirth and good feeling ; for the 
French have that happy and sunshine temperament,— 



38 THE VILLAGE OF A UTEUIL. 

that merry-go-mad character, — which makes all their 
social meetings scenes of enjoyment and hilarity. I made 
it a point never to miss any of i\iQ fetes champetres^ or 
rural dances, at the woods of Boulogne ; though I confess 
it sometimes gave me a momentary uneasiness to see my 
rustic throne beneath the yoke usurped by a noisy group 
of girls, the silence and decorum of my imaginary realm 
broken by music and laughter, and, in a word, my whole 
kingdom turned topsy-turvey with romping, fiddling, and 
dancing. But I am naturally, and from principle, too, a 
lover of all those innocent amusements which cheer the la- 
borer's toil, and, as it were, put their shoulders to the wheel 
of life, and help the poor man along with his load of cares. 
'Hence I saw with no small delight the rustic swain astride 
the wooden horse of the carrousel, and the village maiden 
whirling round and round in its dizzy car ; or took my 
stand on a rising ground that overlooked the dance, an 
idle spectator in a busy throng. It was just where the 
village touched the outward border of the wood. There 
•a little area had been levelled beneath the trees, sur- 
rounded by a painted rail, with a row of benches inside. 
The music was placed in a slight balcony, built around 
the trunk of a large tree in the centre ; and the lamps, 
hanging from the branches above, gave a gay, fantastic, 
and fairy look to the scene. How often in such moments 
did I recall the lines of Goldsmith, describing those 
*' kinder skies" beneath which ** France displays her 
bright domain," and feel how true and masterly the 
sketch, — 

" Alike all ages ; dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful maze. 
And the gray grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, 
Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore." 



THE VILLAGE OF A UTEUIL. 39 

Nor must I forget to mention the fete patronale, — 2k 
kind of annual fair which is held at midsummer, in honor 
•of the patron saint of Auteuil. Then the principal street 
of the 'village is filled with booths of every description ; 
strolling players and rope-dancers, and jugglers, and 
giants, and dwarfs, and wild beasts, and all kinds of 
wonderful shows excite the gaping curiosity of the 
throng ; and in dust, crowds, and confusion, the village 
rivals the capital itself. Then the goodly dames of Passy 
descend into the village of Auteuil ; then the brewers of 
Billancourt and the tanners of Sevres dance lustily under 
the greenwood tree ; and then, too, the sturdy fish- 
mongers of Bretigny and Saint- Yon regale their fat wives 
with an airing in a swing, and their customers with eels 
and crawfish ; or, as is more poetically set forth in an old, 
Christmas carol, — 

** Vous eussiez vu venir 

Tous ceux de Saint- Yon, 
Et ceux de Bretigny 

Apportant du poisson, 
Les barbeaux et gardens, 
Anguilles et carpettes 
Etaient a bon marche 

Croyez, 
A cette journee-l^, 

L^, la, 
Et aussi les perchettes." 

I found another source of amusement in observing the 
various personages that daily passed and repassed beneath 
my window. The character which most of all arrested 
my attention was a poor blind fiddler, whom I first saw 
chanting a doleful ballad at the door of a small tavern 
near the gate of the village. He wore a brown coat, out 



40 THE VILLAGE OF A UTEUIL. 

at elbows, the fragment of a yelvet waistcoat, and a paii 
of tight nankeens, so short as hardly to reach below his 
calyes. A little f oraging-cap, that had long since seen its 
best days, set off an open, good-humored countenance, 
bronzed by sun and wind. He was led about by a brisk, 
middle-aged woman, ill straw hat and wooden shoes ; 
and a little barefooted boy, with clear, blue eyes and 
flaxen hair, held a tattered hat in his hand, in which he 
collected eleemosynary sous. The old fellow had a 
favorite song, which he used to sing with great glee to a 
merry, joyous air, the burden of which ran, " CJiantons 
Vaynour et le plaisirf Let us sing of loye and 
pleasure. I often thought it would haye been a good 
lesson for the crabbed and discontented rich man to haye 
heard this remnant of humanity, — poor, blind, and in 
rags, and dependent upon casual charity for his daily 
bread, singing in so cheerful a yoice the charms of 
existence, and, as it were, fiddling life away to a merry 
tune. 

I was one morning called to my window by the sound 
of rustic music. I looked out and beheld a procession of 
villagers advancing along the road, attired in gay dresses, 
and marching merrily on in the direction of the church. 
I scon perceived that it was a marriage-festival. The pro- 
cession was led by a long orang-outang of a man, in a 
straw hat and white dimity bob-coat, playing on an asth- 
matic clarionet, from which he contrived to blow un- 
earthly sounds, ever and anon squeaking off at right an- 
gles from his tune, and winding up with a grand flourish 
on the guttural notes. Behind him, led by his little boy, 
came the blind fiddler, his honest features glowing with 
all the hilarity of a rustic bridal, and, as he stumbled 
along, sawing away upon his fiddle till he made all crack 



THE VILLAGE OF A UTEUIL. 41 

again. Then came the happy bridegroom, dressed in his 
Sunday suit of blue, with a large nosegay in his button- 
hole ; and close beside him his blushing bride, with 
downcast eyes, clad in a white robe and slippers, and wear- 
ing a wreath of white roses in her hair. The friends and 
relatives brought up the procession ; and a troop of vil- 
lage urchins came shouting along in the rear, scrambling 
among themselves for the largess of sous and sugar-plums 
that now and then issued in large handfuls from the 
pockets of a lean man in black, who eeemed to officiate 
as master of ceremonies on the occasion. I gazed on the 
procession till it was out of sight ; and when the last 
wheeze of the clarionet died upon my ear, I could not 
help thinking how happy were they who were thus to 
dwell together in the peaceful bosom of their native vil- 
lage, far from the gilded n^isery and the pestilential vices 
of the town. 

On the evening of the same day I was sitting by the 
window, enjoying the freshness of the air and the beauty 
and stillness of the hour, when I heard the distant and 
solemn hymn of the Catholic burial-service, at first so 
faint and indistinct that it seemed an illusion. It rose 
mournfully on the hush of the evening, — died gradually 
away,— then ceased. Then it rose again, nearer and 
more distinct, and soon after a funeral procession ap- 
peared, and passed directly beneath my window. It was 
led by a priest, bearing the banner of the church, and 
followed by two boys, holding long flambeaux in their 
hands. N^ext came a double file of priests in white sur- 
plices, with a missal in one hand and a lighted wax taper 
in the other, chanting the funeral dirge at intervals, — now 
pausing, and then again taking up the mournful burden 
of their lamentation, accompanied by others, who played 



42 THE VILLAGE OF A UTEUIL. 

Upon a rude kind of horn, with a dismal and wailing 
sound. Then followed various symbols of the church, 
and the bier borne on the shoulders of four men. The 
coffin was covered with a black velvet pall, and a chaplet 
of white flowers lay upon it, indicating that the deceased 
was unmarried. A few of the villagers came behind, 
clad in mourning robes, and bearing lighted tapers. The 
procession passed slowly along the- same street that in 
the morning had been thronged by the gay bridal com- 
pany. A melancholy train of thought forced itself home 
upon my mind. The joys and sorrows of this world are 
strikingly mingled \ Our mirth and grief are brought 
so mournfully in contact I We laugh while others weep, 
— and others rejoice when we are sad ! The light heart 
and the heavy walk side by side and go about together! 
Beneath the same roof are spread the wedding-feast and 
the funeral-pall ! The bridal-song mingles with the 
burial-hyinn ! One goes to the marriage-bed, another to 
the grave ; and all is mutable, uncertain, and transitory ! 
It is with sensations of pure delight that I recur to the 
brief period of my existence which was passed in the 
peaceful shades of Auteuil. There is one kind of wis- 
dom which we learn from the world, and another kind 
which can be acquired in solitude only. In cities we 
study those around us ; but in the retirement of the 
country we learn to know ourselves. The voice within 
us is more distinctly audible in the stillness of the place ; 
and the gentler affections of our nature spring up more 
freshly in its tranquillity and sunshine, — nurtured by the 
healthy principle which we inhale with the pure air, and 
invigorated by the genial influences which descend into 
the heart from the quiet of the sylvan solitude around, 
and the soft serenity of the sky above. 



JACQUELINE. 

Death lies on her, like an untimely fros*, 
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 

Shakespeam. 

" ~p\EAR mother, is it not the bell I hear ?" 

/.-Xrf:, ** Yes, my child ; the bell for morning prayers. 

It is Sunday to-day." 

*^ I had forgotten it. But now all days are alike to me. 
Hark ! it sounds again, — louder, — louder. Open the 
window, for I love the sound. There, the sunshine and 
the fresh morning air revive me. And the church-bell, — 
mother, — it reminds me of the holy Sunday mornings by 
the Loire, — so calm, so hushed, so beautiful ! Now give 
me my prayer-book, and draw the curtain back, that I may 
see the green trees and the church spire. I feel better 
to-day, dear mother." 

It was a bright, cloudless morning in August. The dew 
sMll glistened on the trees ; and a slight breeze wafted to 
the sick-chamber of Jacqueline the song of the birds, the 
rustle of the leaves, and the solemn chime of the church- 
bells. She had been raised up in bed, and, reclining upon 
the pillow, was gazing wistfully upon the quiet scene 
without. Her mother gave her the prayer-book, and then 
turned away to hide a tear that stole down her cheek. 

At length the bells ceased. Jacqueline crossed herself, 

kissed a pearl crucifix that hung around her neck, and 

opened the silver clasps of her missal. For a time she 

seemed wholly absorbed in her devotions. Jler lips moved, 

43 



44 JACQUELINE, 

but no sound was audible. At intervals the solemn voice 
of the priest was heard at a distance, and then the con- 
fused responses of the congregation, dying away in inar- 
ticulate murmurs. Ere long the thrilling chant of the 
Catholic service broke upon the ear. At first it was low, 
solemn, and indistinct ; then it became more earnest and 
entreating, as if interceding and imploring pardon for sin ; 
and theii arose louder and louder, full, harmonious, majes- 
tic, as it wafted the song of praise to heaven — and sud- 
denly ceased. Then the sweet tones of the oi-gaa were 
heard,— trembling, thrilling, and rising higher and higher, 
and filling the whole air with their rich, melodious musici 
What exquisite accords !— what noble harmonies !— what 
touching pathos ! The soul of the sick girl seemed to 
kindle into more ardent devotion, and to be rapt away to 
heaven in the full, harmonious chorus, as it swelled 
onward, doubling and redoubling, and rolling upward in 
a full burst of rapturous devotion ! Then all was hushed 
again. Once more the low sound of the bell smote the 
air, and announced the elevation of the host. The invalid 
seemed entranced in prayer. Her book had fallen beside 
her,— her hands were clasped, — her eyes closed,— her soul 
retired within its secret chambers. Then a more tri- 
umphant peal of bells arose. The tears gushed from her 
closed and swollen lids; her cheek was flushed ; she 
opened her dark eyes, and fixed them with an expression 
of deep adoration and penitence upon an image of the 
Saviour on the cross, which hung at the foot of her bed, 
and her lips again moved in prayer. Her countenance 
expressed the deepest resignation. She seemed to ask only 
that she might die in peace, and go to the bosom of her 
Redeemer. 
The mother was kneeling by the window, with her face 



JACQUELINE, 45 

concealed in the folds of the curtain. She arose, and, 
going to the bedside of her child, threw her arms around 
her and burst into tears. 

*^ My dear mother, I shall not live long ; I feel it here. 
This piercing pain, — at times it seizes me, and I cannot — 
cannot breathe. " 

'^ My child, you will be better soon." 

" Yes, mother, I shall be better soon. All tears, and 
pain, and sorrow will be over. The hymn of adoration 
and entreaty I have just heard, I shall never hear again on 
earth. N'ext Sabbath, mother, kneel again by that win- 
dow as to-day. I shall not be here, upon this bed of pain 
and sickness ; but when you hear the solemn hymn of 
worsliip, and the beseeching tones that wing the spirit up 
to God, think, mother^ that I am there, with my sweet 
sister who has gone before us,- — kneeling at our Saviour's 
feet, and happy, — 0, how happy !" lu j^^aii'in^ '>:ij jj- 

The afflicted mother made no reply, — her heart was too 
full to speak. 

^' You remember, mother, how calmly Amie died. Poor 
child, she was so young and beautiful ! I always pray that 
I may die as she did. I do not. fear death, as I did before 
she was taken from us. But, 0, — this pain,^this cruel 
pain ! — it seems to draw my mind back from heaven. 
When it leaves me, I shall die in peace." 

" My poor child ! God's holy will be done ! " 

The invalid soon sank into a quiet slumber. The 
excitement was over, and exhausted nature sought relief 
in sleep. 

The persons between whom this scene passed were a 
widow and her sick daughter, from the neighborhood of 
Tours. They had left the banks of the Loire to consult 
the more experienced physicians of the metropolis, and 



46 JACQUELINE. 

had been directed to the Maison de sante at Auteuil for the 
benefit of the pure air. But all in vain. The health of the 
uncomplaining patient grew worse and worse, and it soon 
became evident that the closing scene was drawing near. 

Of this Jacqueline herself seemed conscious ; and 
towards evening she expressed a wish to receive the last 
sacraments of the church. A priest was sent for ; and 
ere long the tinkling of a little bell in the street an- 
nounced his approach. He bore in his hand a silver vase 
containing the consecrated wafer, and a small vessel 
filled with the holy oil of the extreme unction hung from 
his neck. Before him walked a boy carrying a little bell, 
whose sound announced the passing of these symbols of 
the Catholic faith. In the rear, a few of the villagers, 
bearing lighted wax tapers, formed a short and melan- 
choly procession. They soon entered the sick-chamber, 
and the glimmer of the tapers mingled with the red light 
of the setting sun that shot his farewell rays through the 
open window. The vessel of oil and the vase containing 
the consecrated wafer were placed upon the table in front 
of a crucifix that hung upon the wall, and all present, 
excepting the priest, threw themselves upon their knees. 
The priest then approached the bed of the dying girl, and 
said, in a slow and solemn tone, — 

" The King of kings and Lord of lords has passed thy 
threshold. Is thy spirit ready to receive him ?*' 

"It is, father." 

" Hast thou confessed thy sins ? " 

"Holy father, no." 

" Confess thyself, then, that thy sins may be forgiven, 
and thy name recorded in the book of life." 

And, turning to the kneeling crowd around, he waved 
his hand for them to retire, and was left alone with the 



JACqUELINE, 47 

sick girl. He seated himself beside her pillow, and the 
subdued whisper of the confession mingled with the mur- 
mur of the eyening air, which lifted the heayy folds of 
the curtains, and stole in upon the holy scene. Poor 
Jacqueline had few sins to confess, — a secret thought or 
two towards the pleasures and delights of the world, — a 
wish to live, unuttered, but which, to the eye of her self- 
accusing spirit, seemed to resist the wise providence of 
God ; — no more. The confession of a meek and lowly 
heart is soon made. The door was again opened; the 
attendants entered, and knelt around the bed, and the 
priest proceeded, — 

"And now prepare thyself to receive with contrite 
heart the body of our blessed Lord and Redeemer. Dost 
thou believe that our Lord Jesus Christ was conceived by 
the Holy Spirit, and bom of the Virgin Mary ? " 

"I believe." 

And all present joined in the solemn response, — 

'a believe." 

*' Dost thou believe that the Father is God, that the 
Son is God, and that the Holy Spirit is God, — three 
persons and one God ?" 

/a believe." 

^' Dost thou believe that the Son is seated on the right 
hand of the Majesty on high, whence he shall come to 
judge the quick and the dead ? " 

"I believe." 

" Dost thou believe that by the holy sacraments of the 
church thy sins are forgiven thee, and that thus thou art 
made worthy of eternal life ? " 

"I believe." 

^' Dost thou pardon, with all thy heart, all who have 
offended thee in thought, word, or deed ? " 



48 JAOqUELINE. 

"I pardon them." 

** And dost thou ask pardon of God and thy neighbor 
for all offences thou hast committed against them, either 
in thought, word or deed?" 

"I do!" 

" Then repeat after me, — Lord Jesus, I am not 
worthy, nor do I merit, that thy divine majesty should 
enter this poor tenement of clay ; but, according to thy 
holy promises, be my sins forgiven, and my soul washed 
white from all transgression." 

Then, taking a consecrated wafer from the vase, he 
placed it between the lips of the dying girl, and, while 
the assistant sounded the little silver bell, said, — 

" Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat aiiimam 
tuam in vitam eternam" 

And the kneeling crowd smote their breasts and re- 
sponded in one solemn voice, — 

*^Amen!" 

The priest then took from the silver box on the table 
a little golden rod, and, dipping it in holy oil, anointed 
the invalid upon the hands, feet, and breast in the form 
of the cross. When these ceremonies were completed, 
the priest and his attendants retired, leaving the mother 
alone with her dying child, who, from the exhaustion 
caused by the preceding scene, sank into a deathlike sleep. 

'* Between two worlds life hovered like a star, 
'Twixt night and mom, upon the horizon's verge." 

The long twiRght of the summer evening stole on ; the 
shadows deepened without, and the night-lamp glimmered 
feebly in the sick-chamber ; but still she slept. She was 
lying with her hands clasped upon her breast, — her pallid 
cheek resting upon the pillow, and her bloodless lips 



JACQUELINE, 49 

apart, but motionless and silent as the sleep of death. 
Not a breath interrupted the silence of her slumber. Kot 
a movement of the heavy and sunken eyelid, not a trem- 
bling of the lip, not a shadow on the marble brow, told 
when the spirit took its flight. It passed to a better world 
than this : — 

" There 's a perpetual spring,— perpetual youth ; 
No joint-benumbing cold, nor scorching heat, 
Famine, nor age, have any being there," 
5 



THE SEXAGENARIAN. 

Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old, 
with all the characters of age ? Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow 
cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg? Shakespeare. 

THERE he goes, in his long russet surtout, sweeping 
down yonder gravel-walk, beneath the trees, like a 
yellow leaf in autumn wafted along by a fitful gust of 
wind. Now he pauses, — ^now seems to be whirled round 
in an eddy, — and now rustles and brushes onward again. 
He is talking to himself in an undertone, as usual, and 
flourishes a pinch of snuff between his forefinger and his 
thumb, ever and anon drumming on the cover of his box, 
by way of emphasis, with a sound like the tap of a wood- 
pecker. He always takes a morning walk in the garden, 
— in fact, I may say he passes the greater part of the day 
there, either strolling up and down the gravel-walks, or 
sitting on a rustic bench in one of the leafy arbors. He 
always wears that same dress, too ; at least I have never 
seen him in any other; a bell-crowned hat, a frilled 
bosom, and white dimity waistcoat soiled with snuff, — • 
light nankeen smalls, and, over all, that long and flowing 
surtout of russet-brown Circassian, hanging in wrinkles 
round his slender body, and toying with his thin, rakish 
legs. Such is his constant garb, morning and evening ; 
and it gives him a cool and breezy look, even in the heat 
of a noonday in August. 

The personage sketched in the preceding paragraph 
is Monsieur d'Argentville, a sexagenarian, with whom I 
50 



THE SEXAGENARIAN. 51 

became acquainted during my residence at the Maison de 
sante of Auteuil. I found liim there, and left him there. 
Nobody knew when he came, — he liad been there from 
time immemorial ; nor when he was going away, — ^for he 
himself did not know ; nor what ailed him, — for though 
he was always complaining, yet he grew neither better 
nor worse, never consulted the physician, and ate vora- 
ciously three times a day. At table he was rather peev- 
ish, troubled his neighbors with his elbows, and uttered 
the monosyllable pish ! rather oftener than good breeding 
and a due deference tp the opinions of others seemed to 
justify. As soon as he seated himself at table, he breathed 
into his tumbler, and wiped it out with a napkin ; then 
wiped his plate, his spoon, his knife and fork in succes- 
sion, and each with great care. After this he placed the 
napkin undei,' his chin by way of bib and tucker; and, 
these preparations being completed, gave full swing to an 
appetite which was not inappropriately denominated, by 
one of our guests, '^ iiTief aim canine J' 
J. The old gentleman's weak side was an affectation of 
youth and gallantry. Though '* written down old, with 
all the characters of age," yet at times he seemed to think 
himself in the heyday of life ; and the assiduous court he 
paid to a fair countess,, who was passing the summer at 
the Maison de sanU, was the source of no little merri- 
ment to all but himself. He loved, too, to recall the 
golden age of his amours.; and would discourse with pro- 
lix eloquence, and a faint twinkle in his watery eye, of 
his bonnes fortunes in times of old, and the rigors that 
many a fair dame had suffered on his account. Indeed, 
his chief pride seemed to be to make his hearers believe 
that he had been a dangerous man in his youth, and was 
not yet quite safe. 



52 THE SEX A GENARIAN. 

As I also was a peripatetic of the garden, we encoun- 
tered each other at every turn. At first our conversation 
was limited to the usual salutations of the day ; but ere- 
long our casual acquaintance ripened into a kind of inti- 
macy. Step by step I won my way,— first into his society, 
■ — then into his snuff-box, -r— and then into his heart. He 
was a great talker, and he found in me what he found in 
no otlier inmate of the house, — a good listener, who never 
interrapted his long stories, nor contradicted his opinions. 
So he talked down one alley and up another, -^-from break- 
fast till dinner,— from dinner till midnight, — at all times 
and in all places, when he could catch me by the button, 
till at last he had confided to my ear all the important 
and unimportant events of a life of sixty years. 

Monsieur d'Argentville was a shoot from a wealthy 
family of Nantes. Just before the Revolution, he went 
up to Paris to study law at the University, and, like 
many other wealthy scholars of his age, was soon involved 
in the intrigues and dissipation of the metropolis. He 
first established himself in the Rue de PITniversit6 ; but a 
roguish pair of eyes at an opposite window sooii drove 
from the field such heavy tacticians as Hugues Doneau 
and Gui Coquille. A flirtation was commenced in due 
form ; and a flag of truce, offering to capitulatCj was 
sent in the shape of a billet-doux. In the meantime he 
regularly amused his leisure hours by blowing kisses across 
the street with an old pair of bellows. One afternoon, as 
he was occupied in this way, a tall gentleman with whis- 
kers stepped into the room, just as he had charged the 
bellows to the muzzle. He muttered something about an 
explanation,— ^his sister, — marriage,^and the satisfaction 
of a gentleman ! Perhaps there is no situation in life so 
awkward to a man of real sensibility as that of being awed 



THE SEXAGENARIAN. 53 

iBto matrimony or a duel bv the whiskers of a tall brother. 
There was but one alternative ; and the next morning a 
placard at th€ window of the Bachelor of Love, with the 
words *• Furnished Apartment to let," showed that the 
former occupant had found it convenient to change 

lodgings. nj; ,iiuij->J> ' i' -;"•'<'■'-.- -i- > 

He next appeared in the OhausB6e-d''Aiitin, inhere he 
assiduously prepared himself for future exigencies by a 
course of daily lessons in the use of the small-sword. He 
soon after quarrelled with his best friend, about a little 
actress on the Boulevard, and had the satisfaction of being 
jilted, and then run through the body at the Bois de 
Boulogne. This gave him new eclat in the fashionable 
world, and consequently he pursued pleasure with a keener 
relish than ever. He next had the grande passion y and 
narrowly escaped mariying an heiress of great expecta- 
tions, and a countless number of chateaux. Just before 
the catastrophe, however, he had the good fortune to dis- 
cover that the lady^s expectations were limited to his own 
pocket, and that, as for her' chateaux, they were all 
Chateaux en E&pagne. 

About this time his father died ; and the hopeful son 
was hardly well established in his inheritance, when the 
Revolution broke out. Unfortunately he Was a firm 
upholder of the divine right of kings, and had tlie honor 
of being among the first of the proscribed. He narrowly 
escaped the guillotine by jumping on board a vessel 
bound for America, and arrived at Boston with only a 
few francs in his pocket ; but, as he knew how to accom- 
modate himself to circumstances, he contrived to live 
along by teaching fencing and French, and keeping a 
dancing-school and a milliner. 

At the restoration of the Bourbons, he returned to 



54: THE SEXAGENARIAN. 

France ; and from that time to the day of our acquaint- 
ance had been engaged in a series of yexatioug lawsuits, 
in the hope of recovering a portion of his property, which 
had been intrusted to a friend for safe keeping at the 
commencement of the Eevolution. His friend, however, 
denied all knowledge of the transaction, and the assign- 
ment was very difficult to prove. Twelve years of un- 
successful litigation had completely soured the old gen- 
tleman's temper, and made him peevish and misanthropic ; 
and he had come to Auteuil merely to escape the noise of 
the city, and to brace his shattered nerves with pure air 
and quiet amusements. There he idled the time away, 
sauntering about the garden of the Maison de sante, 
talking to himself when he could get no other listener, 
and occasionally reinforcing his misanthropy with a dose 
of the Maxims of La Rochefoucauld, or a visit to the 
scene of his duel in the Bois de Boulogne, 

Poor Monsieur d'Argentville ! What a miserable life 
he led, — or rather dragged on, from day to day ! A 
petulant, broken-down old man, who had outlived his 
fortune, and his friends, and his hopes^ — ^yea, everything 
but the sting of bad passions and the recollection of a life 
ill-spent ! Whether he still walks the earth or slumbers in 
its bosom, I know not ; but a lively recollection of him will 
always mingle with my reminiscences of Auteuil. 



iinj^ti 



pJ:re la chaise. 



Onr fathers find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we 
may be buried in our survivors. 

Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater part must be content to be as though 
they had not been,— to be found in the register of God, not in the record of mah. 

Sir Thomas Browne's Urn Burial. 



THE cemetery of Pere la Chaise is the "Westminster 
Abbey of Paris. Both are the dwellings of the dead ; 
but in one they repose in green alleys and beneath the 
open sky,— in the other their resting-place is in the 
shadowy aisle, and beneath the dim arches of an ancient 
abbey. One is a temple of nature ; the other a temple of 
art. In one-, the soft melancholy of the scene is rendered 
still more touching by the warble of birds and the shade 
of trees, and the grave receives the gentle visit of the sun- 
shine and the shower : in the other, no sound but the pass- 
ing footfall breaks the silence of the place ; the twilight 
steals in through high and dusky windows ; and the damps 
of the gloomy vault lie heavy on the heart, and leave their 
stain upon the mouldering tracery of the tomb. 

Pere la Chaise stands just beyond the Barriere d'Aul- 
nfey, on a hill-side, looking towards the city. Numerous 
gravel-walks winding through shady avenues and between 
marble monuments, lead up from the principal entrance 
to a chapel on the summit. There is hardly a grave 
that has not its little enclosure planted with shrubbery ; 
and a thick mass of foliage half conceals each funeral 
stone. The sighing of the wind, as the branches rise and 
55 



66 PERE LA CHAISE. 

fall upon it, — the occasional note of a bird among the 
trees, and the shifting of light and shade upon the tombs 
beneath, have a soothing effect upon the mind ; and I 
doubt whether any one can enter that enclosure, where re- 
pose the dust and ashes of so many great and good men, 
without feeling the .religion of the place steal over him, 
and seeing something of the dark and gloomy expression 
pass off from the stern countenance of death. 

It was neai* the close of a bright summer afternoon that I 
visited this celebrated spot for the first time. The first ob 
ject that arrested my attention, on entering, was a monu- 
ment in the form of a small Gothic chapel, which stands 
near the entrance, in the avenue leading to the right hand. 
On the marble couch within are stretched two figures, 
in carved stone and dressed in the antique garb of the Mid- 
dle Ages. It is the tomb of Abelard and Heloise. The his- 
tory of these unfortunate lovers is too well known to need 
recapitulation ; but perhaps it is not so well known how 
often their ashes were disturbed in the slumber of the grave. 
Abelard died in the monastery of Saint Marcel, and was 
buried in the vaults of the church. His body was afterward 
removed to the convent of the Paraclet, at the request of 
Heloise, and at her death her body was deposited in the 
same tomb. Three centuries they reposed together ; after 
which they were separated to different sides of the church, 
to calm the delicate scruples of the lady-abbess of the 
convent. More than a century afterward they were again 
united in the same tomb ; and when at length the Para- 
clet was destroyed, these mouldering remains were 
transported to the church of Nogent-sur-Seine. They 
were next deposited in an ancient cloister at Paris ; and 
now repose near the gateway of the cemetery of Pere la 
Chaise. What a singular destiny was theirs ! that, after 



PEBE LA CHAISE, 57 

A life of such passionate and disastrous love, — such sor- 
rows, and tears, and penitence, — their very dust should 
not be suffered to rest quietly in the grave ! — that their 
death should so much resemble their life in its changes 
and vicissitudes, its partings and its meetings, its inquie- 
tudes and persecutions ! — that mistaken zeal should fol- 
low them down to the very tomb, — as if earthly passion 
could glimmer, like a funeral lamp, amid the damps of 
the charnel-house, and " even in their ashes burn their 
wonted fires ! " 

As I gazed on the sculptured forms before me, and the 
little chapel, whose Gothic roof seemed to protect their 
marble sleep, my busy memory swung back the dark 
portals of the past, and the picture of their sad and event- 
ful lives came up before me in the gloomy distance. What 
a lesson for those who are endowed with the fatal gift of 
genius ! It would seem, indeed, that He who *' tempers 
the wind to the shorn lamb " tempers also his chastise- 
ments to the errors and infirmities of a weak and simple 
mind, — while the transgressions of him upon whose 
nature are more strongly marked the intellectual attributes 
of the Deity are followed, even upon earth, by severer 
tokens of the Divine displeasure. He who sins in the dark- 
ness of a benighted intellect sees not so clearly, through 
the shadows that surround him, the countenance of an 
offended God ; but he who sins in the broad noonday of a 
clear and radiant mind, when at length the delirium of 
sensual passion has subsided, and the cloud flits away 
from before the sun, trembles beneath the searching eye 
of that accusing power which is strong in the strength of a 
godlike intellect. Thus the mind and the heart are closely 
linked together, and the errors of genius bear with them 
their own chastisement, even upon earth. The history of 
3* 



58 P^RE LA CHAISE. 

Abelard and Heloise is an illustration of this truth. But 
at length they sleep well. Their lives are like a tale that 
IS told ; their errors are "folded up like a book" ; and 
what mortal hand shall break the seal that death has set 
upon them ? 

Leaving this interesting tomb behind me, I took a 
pathway to the left, which conducted me up the hill-side. 
I soon found myself in the deep shade of heavy foliage, 
where the branches of the yew and willow mingled, inter- 
woven with the tendrils and blossoms of the honeysuckle. 
I now stood in the most populous part of this city of 
tombs. Every step awakened a new train of thrilling 
recollections ; for at every step my eye caught the name 
of some one whose glory had exalted the character of 
his native land, and resounded across the waters of the 
Atlantic. Philosophers, historians, musicians, warriors, 
and poets slept side by side around me ; some beneath 
the gorgeous monument, and some beneath the simple 
headstone. There were the gi-aves of Fourcroi and 
Hatiy ; of Ginguene and Volney ; of Gretry and Mehul ; 
of Ney, and Foy, and Massena ; of La Fontaine and 
Moliere, and Chenier and Delille and Parny. But the 
political intrigue, the dream of science, the historical re- 
search, the ravishing harmony of sound, the tried cour- 
age, the inspiration of the lyre, — where are they ? With 
the living, and not with the dead ! The right hand 
has lost its cunning in the grave ; but the soul, whose 
high volitions it obeyed, still lives to reproduce itself in 
ages yet to come. 

Among these graves of genius I observed here and 
there a splendid monument, which had been raised by 
the pride of family over the dust of men who could lay no 
claim either to the gratitude or remembrance of posterity. 



PERE LA CHAISE. 59 

Their presence seemed like an intrusion into the sanctu- 
ary of genius. What had wealth to do there ? Why 
should it crowd the dust of the great ? That was no 
thoroughfare of business, — no mart of gain J There 
were no cosily banquets there ; no silken garments, nor 
gaudy liveries, nor obsequious attendants ! " What ser- 
vants," says Jeremy Taylor, " shall we have to wait upon 
us in the grave ? what friends to visit us ? what officious 
people to cleanse away the moist and unwholesome cloud re- 
flected upon our faces from the sides of the weeping vaults, 
which are the longest weepers for our funerals ? " Mate- 
rial wealth gives a factitious superiority to the living, but 
the treasures of mtellect give a real superiority to the dead ; 
and the rich man, who would not deign to walk the street 
with the starving and penniless man of genius, deems it 
an honor, when death has redeemed the fame of the neg- 
lected, to have his own ashes laid beside him, and to 
claim with him the silent companionship of the grave. 

I continued my walk through the numerous winding 
paths, as chance or curiosity directed me. Now I was 
lost in a little green hollow, overhung with thick-leaved 
shrubbery, and then came out upon an elevation, fi-om 
which, through an opening in the trees, the eye caught 
glimpses of the city, and the little esplanade, at the foot 
of the hill, where the poor lie buried. There poverty 
hires its grave, and takes but a short lease of the narrow 
house. At the end of a few months, or at most of a few 
years, the tenant is dislodged to give place to another, 
and he in turn to a third. ** Who," says Dr. Thomas 
Browne, " knows the fate of his bones, or how often he is 
to be buried? Who hath the oracle of his ashes, or 
whither they are to be scattered ? " 

Yet, even in that neglected corner, the hand of affec- 



'00 PERE LA CHAISE, 

tion had been busy in decorating the hired house. Most 
of the graves were surrounded with a slight wooden pal- 
ing, to secure them from the passing footstep"; there was 
hardly one so deserted as not to be marked with its little 
wooden cross, and decorated with a garland of flowers ; 
and here and there I could perceive a solitary mourner, 
clothed in black, stooping to plant a shrub on the grave, 
or sitting in motionless sorrow beside it. 

As I passed on, amid the shadowy avenues of the ceme- 
tery, I could not help comparing my own impressions 
with those which others have felt when walking alone 
among the dwellings of the dead. Ai'e, then, the sculp- 
tured urn and storied monument nothing more than sym- 
bols of family pride ? Is all I see around me a memorial 
of the living more than of the dead, — an empty show of 
sorrow, which thus vaunts itself in mournful pageant and 
funeral parade ? Is it indeed true, as some have said, that 
the simple wild-flower, which springs spontaneously upon 
the grave, and the rose, which the hand of affection 
plants there, are fitter objects wherewith to adorn the 
narrow house ? No ! I feel that it is not so ! Let the 
good and the great be honored even in the grave. Let the 
sculptured marble direct our footsteps to the scene of their 
long sleep ; let the chiselled ej)itaph repeat their names, 
and tell us where repose the nobly good and wise ! It is 
not true that all are equal in the grave. There is no 
equality even there. The mere handful of dust and ashes, 
• — the mere distinction of prince and beggar, — of a rich 
winding-sheet and a shroudless burial,— of a solitary grave 
and a family vault, — were this all, — then, indeed, it v/ould 
be true that death is a common leveller. Such j^altry dis- 
tinctions as those of wealth and poverty are soon levelled 
by the spade and mattock ; the damp breath of the gr^ve 



P^RB LA CHAISE. 61 

blots them out forever. But there are other distinctions 
which even the mace of death cannot level or obliterate. 
Can it break down the distinction of virtue and vice ? 
Can it confound the good with the bad ? the noble with 
the base ? all that is truly great, and pure, and godlike^ 
with all that is scorned, and sinful, and degraded ? No ! 
Then death is not a common leveller ! Are all alike 
beloved in death and honored in their burial ? Is that 
ground holy where the bloody hand of the murderer sleeps 
from crime ? Does every grave awaken the same emo- 
tions in our hearts ? and do the footsteps of the stranger 
pause as long beside each funeral-stone ? No ! Then all 
are not equal in the grave ! And as long as the good and 
evil deeds of men live after them, so long will there be dis- 
tinctions even in the grave. The superiority of one over 
another is in the nobler and better emotions which it ex- 
cites ; in its more fervent admonitions to virtue ; in the 
livelier recollection which it aw^akens of the good and the 
great, whose bodies are crumbling to dust beneath our feet! 
If, then, there are distinctions in the gi*ave, surely it 
is not unwise to designate them by the external marks of 
honor. These outward appliances and memorials of re- 
spect, — the mournful urn, — the sculptured bust, — ^the 
epitaph eloquent in praise, — cannot indeed create these 
distinctions, but they serve to mark them. It is only 
when pride or wealth builds them to honor the slave of 
mammon or the slave of appetite, w^hen the voice from the 
grave rebukes the false and pompous epitaph, and the dust 
and ashes of the tomb seem struggling to maintain the su- 
periority of mere worldly rank, and to carry into the gi'ave 
the bawbles of earthly vanity, — it is then, and then only, 
that we feel how utterly worthless are all the devices of 
sculpture, and the empty pomp of monumental brass ! 



6^ PERE LA CHAISE, 

"'^' After rambling leisurely about for some time, reading 
the inscriptions on the various monuments which at 
tracted my curiosity, and giving way to the different re- 
flections they suggested, I sat down to rest myself on a 
sunken tombstone. A winding gravel-walk, overshaded 
by an avenue of trees, and lined on both sides with richly 
sculptured monuments, had gradually conducted me to 
the summit of the hill, upon whose slope the cemetery 
stands. Beneath me in the distance, and dim-discovered 
through the misty and smoky atmosphere of evening, 
rose the countless roofs and spires of the city. Beyond, 
throwing his level rays athwart the dusky landscape, 
sank the broad red sun. The distant murmur of the 
city rose upon my ear ; and the toll of the evening bell 
came up, mingled with the rattle of the paved street and 
the confused sounds of labor. What an hour for medita- 
tion ! What a contrast between the metropolis of the 
living and the metropolis of the dead ! I could not help 
calling to my mind that allegory of mortality, written by 
a hand which has been many a long year cold : — 

*' Earth goeth upon earth as man upon mould, 
Like as earth upon earth never go should, 
Earth goeth upon earth as glistening gold, 
And yet shall earth unto earth rather than he would. 

** Lo, earth on earth, consider thou may, 
How earth cometh to earth naked alway, 
Why shall earth upon earth go stout or gay. 
Since earth out of earth shall pass in poor array." * 

* I subjoin this relic of old English verse entire, and in its anti- 
quated language, for those of my readers who may have an anti- 
quarian taste. It is copied from a book whose title I have forgotten, 
and of which I have but a single leaf, containing the poem. In de* 



PEBE LA CHAISE, 63 

Before I left the graveyard the shades of evening had 
fallen, and the objects around me grown dim and indis- 
tinct. As I passed the gateway, I turned to take a part- 
ing look. I could distinguish only the chapel on the 
summit of the hill, and here and there a lofty obelisk of 
snow-white marble, rising from the black and heavy mass 

scribing the antiquities of the church of Stratford-upon-Avon, the 
writer gives the following account of a very old painting upon the 
wall, and of the poem which served as its motto. The painting is 
no longer visible, having been effaced in repairing the church. 

** Against the west wall of the nave, on the south side of the 
arch, was painted the martyrdom of Thomas-a-Beci^et, while kneel- 
ing at the altar of St. Benedict in Canterbury cathedral ; below this 
was the figure of an angel, probably St. Michael, supporting a long 
scroll, upon which were seven stanzas in old English, being an alle- 
gory of mortality : — 

" Erthe oute of Erthe ys wondurly wroght 
Erth hath gotyn uppon erth a dygnyte of noght 
Erth ypon erth hath sett all hys thowht 
How erth apon erth may be hey browght 

** Erth apon erth wold be a kyng 
But how that erth gott to erth he thyngkys nothyng 
When erth byddys erth hys rentys whom bryng 
Then schall erth apon erth have a hard ptyng 

*' Erth apon erth wynnys castellys and towrys 
Then seth erth unto erth thys ys all owrys 
When erth apon erth hath bylde hys bowrys 
Then schall erth for erth suffur many hard schowrys 

" Erth goth apon erth as man apon mowld 
Lyke as erth apon erth never goo schold 
Erth goth apon erth as gelsteryng gold 
And yet schall erth unto erth rather than he wold 



64 PEBE LA CHAISE. 

of foliage around, and pointing upward to the gleam of 
the departed sun, that still lingered in the sky, and 
mingled with the soft starlight of a summer evening. 



*' Why that erth loveth erth wondur me thynke 
Or why that erth wold for erth other swett or swynke 
When erth apon erth ys broght wt. yn the brynke 
Then schall erth apon erth have a fowll stynke 

**' L6 erth on erth consedur thow may 
How erth corayth to erth nakyd all way 
Why schall erth apon erth goo stowte or gay 
Seth erth owt of erth schall passe yn poor aray 

** I counsill erth apon erth that ys wondurly wrogt 
The whyl yt. erth ys apon erth to tome hys thowht 
And pray to god upon erth yt. all erth wroght 
That all crystyn souUys to ye. blys may be broght 

** Beneath were two men, holding a scroll over a body wrapped in 
a winding sheet, and covered with some emblems of mortality," etc. 



THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 

Je ne conoois qu'une maniere de voyager plus agreable que d'aller a cheval; 
c'est d'aller a pied. On part a son moment, on s'arrete a sa volonte, on fait tant 
et si peu d'exercise qu'on veut. 

Quand on ne veut qu'arriver, on pent courir en chaise de poste ; mais quandon 
veut voyager, il f aut aller a pied. 

Rousseau. 

IN tlie melanclioly month of October, I made a foot 
excursion along the banks of the Loire, from Orleans 
to Tours. This luxuriant region is justly called the gar- 
den of France. From Orleans to Blois, the whole yalley 
of the Loire is one continued vineyard. The bright green 
foliage of the vine spreads, like the undulations of the 
sea, over all the landscape, with here and there a silver 
flash of the river, a sequestered hamlet, or the towers of 
an old chateau, to enliven and variegate the scene. 

The vintage had already commenced. The peasantry 
were busy in the fields, — the song that cheered their labor 
was on the breeze, and the heavy wagon tottered by, 
laden with the clusters of the vine. Everything around 
me wore that happy look which makes the heart glad. 
In the morning I arose with the lark ; and at night I 
slept where sunset overtook me. The healthy exercise of 
foot-travelling, the pure, bracing air of autumn, and the 
cheerful aspect of the whole landscape about me, gave 
fresh elasticity to a mind not overburdened with care, 
and made me forget not only the fatigue of walking, but 
also the consciousness of being alone. 

My first day's journey brought me at evening to a vil° 
65 



66 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE, 

lage, whose name I have forgotten, situated about eight 
leagues from Orleans. It is a small, obscure hamlet, not 
mentioned in the guide-book, and stands upon the pre- 
cipitous banks of a deep ravine, through which a noisy 
fjcoojX leaps down to turn the ponderous wheel of a 
thatch=roofed milL The -village inn stands upon the 
highway 3 but the village itself is not visible to the trav- 
eller as he passes. It is completely hidden in the lap ai c, 
wooded valley, and so embowered in trees that not a roof ji(J£ 
a chimney peeps out to betray its hiding-place. It is Mko 
the nest of a ground-swallow, which the passing footstep 
almost treads upon, and yet it is not seen. I passed by 
without suspecting that a village was near ; and the little 
inn had a look so uninviting that I did not even enter it. 

After proceeding a mile or two farther, I perceived, 
upon my left, a village spire rising over the vineyards. 
Towards this I directed my footsteps ; but it seemed to 
recede as I advanced, and at last quite disappeared. It 
was evidently many miles distant ; and as the path I fol- 
lowed descended from the highway, it had gradually 
sunk beneath a swell of the vine-clad landscape. I now 
found myself in the midst of an extensive vineyard. It 
was just sunset ; and the last golden rays lingered on the 
rich and mellow scenery around me. The peasantry we^:e 
still busy at their task ; and the occasional bark of a dog, 
and the distant sound of an evening bell, gave fresh ro- 
mance to the scene. The reality of many a day-dream of 
childhood, of many a poetic re very of youth, was before 
me. I stood at sunset amid the luxuriant vineyards of 
France ! 

The first person I met was a poor old woman, a little 
bowed down with age, gathering grapes into a large 
basket. She was dressed like the poorest class of peas- 



THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE 67 

antry, and pursued lier solitary task alone, heedless of the 
cheerful gossip and the merry laugh which came from a 
band of more youthful vintagers at a short distance from 
her. She was so intently engaged in her work, that she 
did not i^erceive my approach until I bade her good even- 
ing. On hearing my voice, she looked up from her labor, 
and returned the salutation ; and, on my asking her if 
there were a tavern or a farm-house in the neighborhood 
where I could pass the night, she showed me the pathway 
through the vineyard that led to the village, and then 
added, with a look of curiosity, — 

" You must be a stranger, sir, in these parts." 

'' Yes ; my home is very far from here.'' 

'' How far ? '' 

'^ More than a thousand leagues." 

The old woman looked incredulous. 

^'I came from a distant land beyond the sea." 

'* More than a thousand leagues ! " at length repeated 
she ; '' and why have you come so far from home ? " 

*' To travel ; — to see how you live in this country." 

" Have you no relations in your own ? " 

" Yes ; I have both brothers and sisters, a fathei 
and—" 

'' And a mother ? " 

'' Thank Heaven, I have." 

" And did you leave her 9 " 

Here the old woman gave me a piercing look of reproof ; 
shook her head mournfully, and, with a deep sigh, as if 
some i)ainf ul recollection had been awakened in her bosom, 
turned again to her solitary task. I felt rebuked ; for 
there is something almost prophetic in the admonitions 
of the old. The eye of age looks meekly into my heart ! 
the voice of age echoes mournfully through it ! the 



68 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 

hoary head and palsied hand of age plead irresistibly for 
its sympathies ! I venerate old age ; and I love not the 
man who can look without emotion upon the sundown of 
life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the 
watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader 
and deeper upon the understanding ! 

I pursued the pathway which led towards the village, 
and the next person I encountered was an old man, 
stretched lazily beneath the vines upon a little strip of 
turf, at a point where four paths met, forming a crossway 
in the vineyard. He was clad in a coarse garb of gray, 
with a pair of long gaiters or spatter-dashes. Beside him 
lay a blue cloth-cap, a staff, and an old weather-beaten 
knapsack. I saw at once that he was a foot-traveller like 
myself, and therefore, without more ado, entered into 
conversation with him. From his language, and the 
peculiar manner in which he now and then wiped his 
upper lip with the back of his hand, as if in search of 
the mustache which v/as no longer there, I judged that 
he had been a soldier. In this opinion I was not mis- 
taken. He' had served under Napoleon, and had followed 
the imperial eagle across the Alps, and the Pyrenees, and 
the burning sands of Egypt. Like every vieiUe 7no2istacJie, 
he spake with enthusiasm of the Little Corporal, and 
cursed the English, the Germans, the Sj^anish, and 
every other race on earth, except the great nation, — his 
own. 

"I like," said he, "after a long day's march, to lie 
down in this way upon the grass, and enjoy the cool of 
the evening. It reminds me of the bivouacs of other 
days, and of old friends who are now up there." 

Here he pointed with his finger to the sky. 

*' They have reached the last etape before me, m the 



THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 69 

long marcli. But I shall go soon. We shall all meet 
again at the last roll-call. A soldier has a heart, and 

can feel like other men. Sacre nom de ! There's 

a tear ! " 

He wiped it away with his sleeve. 

Here our colloquy was interrupted by the approach of 
a group of vintagers, who were returning homeward from 
their labor. To this party I joined myself, and invited 
the old soldier to do the same ; but he shook his head. 

*^ I thank you ; my pathway lies in a different direc- 
tion." 

" But there is no other village near, and the sun has 
abeady set." 

^' No matter, I am used to sleeping on the ground. 
Good night." 

I left the old man to his meditations, and walked on 
in company with the vintagers. Following a well-trod- 
den pathway through the vineyards, we soon descended 
the valley's slope, and I suddenly found myself in the 
bosom of one of those little hamlets from which the la- 
borer rises to his toil as the skylark to his song. My 
companions wished me a good night, as each entered his 
own thatch-roofed cottage, and a little girl led me out to 
the very inn which an hour or two before I had disdained 
to enter. 

When I awoke in the morning, a brilliant autumnal sun 
was shining in at my window. The merry song of birds 
mingled sweetly with the sound 6f rustling leaves and 
the gurgle of the brook. The vintagers were going forth 
to their toil ; the wine-press was busy in the shade, and 
the clatter of the mill kept time to the miller's song. I 
loitered about the village with a feeling of calm delight. 
J was unv\^illing to leave the seclusion of this sequestered 



70 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIBE. 

hamlet ; but at length, with reluctant step, I took the 
cross-road through the vineyard, and in a moment the 
little village had sunk again, as if by enchantment, into 
the bosom of the earth. 

I breakfasted at the town of Mer ; and, leaving the 
high-road to Blois on the right, passed down to the banks 
of the Loire, through a long, broad avenue of poplars 
and sycamores. I crossed the river in a boat, and in the 
after part of the day I found myself before the high and 
massive walls of the chateau of Chambord. This chateau 
is one of the finest specimens of the ancient Gothic castle 
to be found in Europe. The little river Oosson fills its 
deep and ample moat, and above it the huge towers and 
heavy battlements rise in stern and solemn grandeur, 
moss-grown with age, and blackened by the storms of 
three centuries. Within, all is mournful and deserted. 
The grass has overgrown the pavement of the courtyard, 
and the rude sculpture upon the walls is broken and de- 
faced. From the courtyard I entered the central tower, 
and, ascending the principal staircase, went out upon the 
battlements. I seemed to have stepped back into the 
precincts of the feudal ages ; and, as I passed along 
through echoing corridors, and vast, deserted halls, 
stripped of their furniture, and mouldering silently away, 
the distant past came back upon me ; and the times when 
the clang of arms, and the tramp of mail-clad men,- and 
the sounds of music and revelry and wassail, echoed along 
those high-vaulted andf 'solitary chambers ! 

My third day's journey brought me to the ancient city 
of Blois, the chief town of the department of Loire-et- 
Cher. This city is celebrated for the purity with which 
even . the lower classes of inhabitants speak their native 
tongue. It rises precipitously from the northern bank of 



THE VALLEY OJr TILE LOIIiE. 71 

the Loire ; and many of its streets are so steep as to be 
almost impassable for caridages. On the brow of the hill, 
overlooking the roofs of the city, and commanding a fine 
^ view of the Loire and its noble bridge, and the surround- 
ing country, sprinkled with cottages and country-seats, 
runs an ample terrace, planted with trees, and laid out 
as a public walk. The view from this terrace is one of 
the most beautiful in France. But what most strikes 
the eye of the traveller at Blois is an old, though still un- 
finished, chateau. Its huge parapets of hewn stone stand 
upon either side of the street ; but they have walled up 
the wide gateway, from whioii the colossal drawbridge 
was to have sprung high in air, connecting together the 
main towers of the chateau, and the two hills upon 
whose slope its foundations stand. The aspect of this 
vast pile is gloomy and desolate. It seems as if the strong 
hand of the builder had been arrested in the midst of his 
task by the stronger hand of death ; and the unfinished 
fabric stands a lasting monument both of the power 
and weakness of man, — of his vast desires, his sanguine 
hopes, his ambitious purposes, — and of the unlooked-for 
conclusion, where all these desires, and hopes, and pur- 
poses are so often arrested. There is also at Blois an- 
other ancient chateau, to which some historic interest is 
attached, as being the scene of the massacre of the Duke 
of Guise. 

On the following day, I left Blois for Amboise ; and, 
after walking several leagues along the dusty highway, 
crossed the river in a boat to the little village of Moines, 
which lies amid luxuriant vineyards uj)on the southern 
bank of the Loire. From Moines to Amboise the road is 
truly delightful. The rich lowland scenery, by tlie mar- 
gin of the river, is verdant even in October ; and occa- 



72 THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 

sionally the landscape is diversified with the picturesque 
cottages of the vintagers, cut in the rock along the road- 
side, and overhung by the thick foliage of the vines above 
them. 

At Amboise I took a cross-road, which led me to the 
romantic borders of the Cher and the chateau of Chernan- 
ceau. This beautiful chateau, as well as that of Cham- 
bord, was built by the gay and munificent Francis I. 
One is a specimen of strong and massive architecture, — a 
dwelling for a warrior ; but the other is of a lighter and 
more graceful construction, and was destined for those 
soft languishments of passion with which the fascinating 
Diane de Poitiers had filled the bosom of that voluptuous 
monarch. 

The chateau of Chernanceau is built upon arches across 
the river Cher, whose waters are made to supply the deep 
moat at each extremity. There is a spacious courtyard in 
front, from which a drawbridge conducts to the outer hall 
of the castle. There the armor of Francis I. still hangs 
upon the wall, — his shield, and helm, and lance, — as if 
the chivalrous j)rince had just exchanged them for the 
silken robes of the drawing-room. From this hall a door 
opens into a long gallery, extending the whole length of 
the building across the Cher. The walls of the gallery 
are hung with the faded portraits of the long line of the 
descendants of Hugh Capet ; and the windows, looking 
up and down the stream, command a fine reach of pleas- 
ant river scenery. This is said to be the only chateau in 
France in which the ancient furniture of its original age 
is preservea. In one part of the building, you are shown 
the bed-chamber of Diane de Poitiers, with its antique 
chairs covered with faded damask and embroidery, her 
bed, and a portrait of the royal favorite hanging over the 



THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 73. 

mantelpiece. In another you see the apartment of the 
infamous Catherine de' Medici ; a venerable arm-chaii 
and an autograph letter of Henry lY. ; and in an 
old laboratory', among broken crucibles, and neckless 
retorts, and drums, and trumpets, and skins of wild 
beasts, and other ancient lumber, of yarious kinds, are to 
be seen the bed-posts of Francis I. Doubtless the naked 
walls and the vast solitary chambers of an old and desolate 
chateau inspire a feeling of gi*eater solemnity and awe ; 
but when the antique furniture of the olden time remains, 
— the faded tapestry on the walls, and the arm-chair by 
the fireside, — the effect upon the mind is more magical 
and delightful. The old inhabitants of the place, long 
gathered to their fathers, though Hying still in history, 
seem to haye left their halls for the chase or the tourna- 
ment ; and as the heavy door swings upon its reluctant 
hinge, one almost expects to see the gallant princes and 
courtly dames enter those halls again, and svv'eep in stately 
procession along the silent corridors. 

Rapt in such fancies as these, and gazing on the beau- 
ties of this noble edifice, and the soft scenery around it, I 
lingered, unwilling to depart, till the rays of the setting 
sun, streaming through the dusty windows, admonished 
me that the day was drawing rapidly to a close. I sallied 
forth from the southern gate of the chateau, and crossing 
the broken drawbridge, pursued a pathway along the bank 
of the river, still gazing back upon those towering walls, 
now bathed in the rich glow of sunset, till a turn in the 
road and a clump of woodland at length shut them out 
from my sight< 

A short time after candle-lighting, I reached the little 
tavern of the Boule d'Or, a few leagues from Tours, where 
I passed the night. The following morning was lowering 



74 



THE VALLEY OF ThE LOIRE. 



and sad. A veil of mist hung oyer the landscape, and 
ever and anon a heavy shower burst from the overbur- 
dened clouds, that were driving by before a high and 
piercing wind. This unpropitious state of the weather 
detained me until noon, when a cabriolet for Tours drove 
up ; and, taking a seat within it, I left the hostess of the 
Boule d'Or in the middle of a long story about a rich 
countess, who always alighted there when she passed 
that way. We drove leisurely along through a beautiful 
country, till at length we came to the brow of a steep 
hill, which commands a fine view of the city of Tours 
and its delightful environs. But the scene was shrouded 
by the heavy drifting mist, through which I could trace 
but indistinctly the graceful sweep of the Loire, and the 
spires and roofs of the city far below me. 

The city of Tours and the delicious plain in which it 
lies have been too often described by other travellers to 
render a new description, from so listless a pen as mine, 
either necessary or desirable. After a sojourn of two 
cloudy and melancholy days, I set out on my return to 
Paris, by the way of Vendome and Chartres. I stopped 
a few hours at the former place, to examine the ruins of 
a chateau built by Jeanne d'Albret, mother of Henry the 
Fourth. It stands upon the summit of a high and pre- 
cipitous hill, and almost overhangs the town beneath. 
The French Revolution has completed the ruin that time 
had already begun ; and nothing now remains but a bro- 
ken and crumbling bastion, and here and there a solitary 
tower dropping slowly to decay. In one of these is the 
grave of Jeanne d'Albret. A marble entablature in the 
wall above contains the inscription, which is nearly ef- 
faced, though enough ctill remains to tell the carious 
traveller that there lies buried the mother of the *^Bob 



TBE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE. 75 

Henri/' To tliis is added a prayer that the repose of the 
dead may be respected, — a prayer which has been shame- 
fully disregarded. 

Here ended my foot excursion. The object of my 
journey was accomplished ; and, delighted with this short 
ramble through the valley of the Loire, I took my seat in 
the diligence for Paris, and on the following day was 
again swallowed up in the crowds of the metropolis, like 
a drop in the bosom of the sea. 



THE TROUyJ:EES. 

Quant recommence et revient biaux estez. 

Que foille et flor resplendit par boschage. 
Que li froiz tanz de I'hyver est passez, 
Et cil oisel chantent en lor langage, 
Lors chanterai 
Et envoi siez serai 
De cuer verai. 

Jaques de Chison. 

THE literature of France is peculiarly rich in poetry 
of the olden time. We can trace up the stream of 
gong until it is lost in the deepening shadows of the Mid- 
dle Ages. Even there it is not a shallow tinkling rill ; 
but it comes like a mountain stream, rushing and sound- 
ing onward through the enchanted regions of romance, 
and mingles its voice with the tramp of steeds and the 
brazen sound of arms. 

The glorious reign of Charlemagne,* at the close of 

* The following amusing description of this Restorer of Letters, 
as his biographers call him, is taken from the fabulous Chronicle 
of John Turpin, Chap. xx. 

"The Emperor was of a ruddy complexion, with brown hair ; of 
a well-made, handsome form, but a stern visage. His height was 
about eight of his own feet, which were very long. He was of a 
strong, robust make ; his legs and thighs very stout, and his sinews 
firm. His face was thirteen inches long ; his beard a palm ; his 
nose half a palm ; his forehead a foot over. His lion-like eyes 
flashed fire like carbuncles ; his eyebrows were half a palm over. 
When he was angry, it was a terror to look upon him. He required 
eight spans for his girdle beside what hung loose. He ate spar* 

7a 



THE TB0UVEBE8. 77 

the eighth and the commencement of the ninth century, 
seems to have breathed a spirit of learning as well as of 
chivalry throughout all France. The monarch established 
schools and academies in different parts of his realm, and 
took delight in the society and conversation of learned 
men. It is amusing to see with what evident self-satis- 
faction some of the magi whom he gathered around him 
speak of their exertions in widening the sphere of human 
knov/ledge, and pouring in light upon the darkness of 
their age. ^* For some," says Alcuin, the director of the 
school of St. Martin de Tours, ^'1 cause the honey of the 
Holy Scriptures to flow ; I intoxicate others v/ith the old 
wine of ancient history ; these I nourish with the fruits 
of grammar, gathered by my own hands ; and those I 
enlighten by pointing out to them the stars^ like lamps 
attached by the vaulted ceiling of a great pUace ! " 

Besides this classic erudition of the schools, the age had 
also its popular literature. Those who w^re untaught in 
scholastic wisdom were learned in traditionary lore ; for 
they had their ballads, in which were lesoribed the valor 
and achievements of the early kings of ^he Franks. These 
ballads, of which a collection was made by order of Char- 
lemagne, animated the rude soldier as \ie rushed to battle, 
and were sung in the midnight bivouacs of the camp. 
*^ Perhaps it is not too much to say," observes the lite- 



ingly of bread ; but a whole quarter of lamb, two fowls, a goose, or 
a large portion of pork ,- a peacock, a crane, or a whole hare. He 
drank moderately of wine and water. He was so strong that he 
could at a single blow cleave asunder an armed soldier on horse- 
back, from the head to the waist, and the horse likewise. He easily 
vaulted ever four horses harnessed together ; and could raise an 
armed man from the ground to his head, as he stood erect upon hi» 
hand." 



"78 THE TROTIVMES. 

rary historian Schlegel, ^' that we have still in onr pos^ 
session, if not the original language and form, at least 
the substance, of many of those ancient poems which 
were collected by the orders of that prince ; — I refer to 
the Nibelungenlied, and the collection which goes by the 
name of the Heldenbuch." 

When at length the old Tudesque language, which was 
the court language of Charlemagne, had given place to 
the Langue d'Oil, the northern dialect of the French Eo- 
mance, these ancient ballads passed from the memories of 
the descendants of the Franks, and were succeeded by the 
romances of Charlemagne and his Twelve Peers, — of Eow- 
land and Olivir, and the other paladins who died at Ron- 
cesvalles. Robert Wace, a Norman -Trouvere of the 
twelfth century, says in one of his poems, that a min- 
strel named Talliefer, mounted on a swift horse, went in 
front of the Norman army at the battle of Hastings, 
singing these ancient poems. 

These Chansons de Geste, or old historic romances of 
France, are ejiic in their character, though, without doubt, 
they were wi'itten to be chanted to the sound of an instni- 
ment. To what period many of them belong, in their 
present form, has never yet been fully determined ; and 
should it finally be proved by philological research that 
they can claim no higher antiquity than the twelfth or 
thirteenth century, still there can be little doubt that in 
their original form many of them reached far back into 
the ninth or tenth. The long prevalent theory, that the 
romances of the Twelve Peers of France all originated in 
the fabulous chronicle of Charlemagne and Rowland, writ- 
ten by the Archbishop Turpin in the twelfth centuiy, if 
not as yet generally exploded, is nevertheless fast losing 
ground. 



THE TBOUV^BES. 79 

To the twelfth and thirteenth centuries also belong 
most of the Fabliaux, or metrical tales of the TrouYeres. 
Many of these compositions are remarkable for the inven- 
tive talent they display, but as poems they have, generally 
speaking, little merit, and at times exhibit such a want 
of refinement, such open and gToss obscenity, as to be 
highly offensive. 

It is a remarkable circumstance in the literary history 
of France, that, while her antiquarians and scholars have 
devoted themselves to collecting and illustrating the poet- 
ry of the Troubadours, the early lyric poets of the South, 
that of the Trouveres, or Troubadours of the North, has 
been almost entirely neglected. By a singular fatality, 
too, what little time and attention have hitherto been be- 
stowed upon the fathers of French poetry have been so 
directed as to save from oblivion little of the most valua- 
ble portions of their writings ; while the more tedious and 
worthless parts have been brought forth to the public eye, 
as if to deaden curiosity, and put an end to further re- 
search. The ancient historic romances of the land have, 
for the most jDart, been left to slumber unnoticed ; while 
the lewd and tiresome Fabliaux have been ushered into 
the world as fair specimens of the ancient poetry of 
France. This has created unjust prejudices in the minds 
of many against the literature of the olden time, and has 
led them to regard it as nothing more than a confused 
mass of coarse and vulgar fictions, adapted to a rude and 
inelegant state of society. 

Of late, however, a more discerning judgment has been 
brought to the difficult task of ancient research ; and, 
in consequence of this, the long-established prejudices 
against the crumbling monuments of the national liter- 
ature of France during the Middle Ages is fast disappear- 



80 THE TR0UVEBE8. 

ing. Several learned men are engaged in rescuing from 
oblivion the ancient poetic romances of Charlemagne and 
the Twelve Peers of France, and their labors seem des- 
tined to throw new light, not only upon the state of liter- 
ature, but upon the 'State of society, during the twelfth 
and thirteenth centuries. 

Among the voluminous remains of Troubadour litera- 
ture, little else has yet been discovered than poems of a 
lyric character. The lyre of the Troubadour seems to 
have responded to the impulse of momentary feelings 
only, — to the touch of local and transitory circumstances. 
His song was a sudden burst of excited feeling ; — it ceased 
when the passion was subdued, or rather when its first 
feverish excitement passed away ; and as the liveliest feel- 
ings are the most transitory, the songs which embodied 
them are short, but full of spirit and energy. On the 
other hand, the great mass of the poetry of the Trou- 
veres is of a narrative or epic character. The genius of 
the North seems always to have delighted in romantic 
fiction ; and whether we attribute the origin of modern 
romance to the Arabians or to tlie Scandinavians, this at 
least is certain that there existed marvellous tales in the 
Northern languages, and from these, in part at least, the 
Trouveres imbibed the spirit of narrative poetry. There 
are no traces of lyric compositions among their writings, 
till about tlie commencement of the thirteenth century ; 
and it seems probable that the spirit of song-writing was 
imbibed from the Troubadors of the South. 

Unfortunately, the neglect which has so long attended 
the old historic and heroic romances of the North of 
France has also befallen in some degree its early lyric 
poetry. Little has yet been done to discover and bring 
forth its riches ; and doubtless many a sweet little ballad 



THE TBOUVERES. 81 

and melanclioly complaint lies buried in the dust of the 
thirteenth century. It is not, however, my object, in 
this paper, to give an historical sketch of this ancient and 
almost forgotten poetry, but simply to bring forward a 
few specimens which shall exhibit its most striking and 
obyious characteristics. 

In these examples it would be in yain to look for high- 
wrought expression suited to the prevailing taste of the 
present day. Their most striking peculiarity, and per- 
haps their greatest merit, consists in the simple and direct 
expression of feeling which they contain. This feeling, 
too, is one w^hich breathes the languor of that submissive 
homage which was paid to beauty in the days of chivalry ; 
and I am aware, that, in this age of masculine and 
matter-of-fact thinking, the love-conceits of a more poetic 
state of society are generally looked upon as extremely 
trivial and puerile. Nevertheless I shall venture to 
present one or two of these simple ballads, which, by 
recalling the distant age wherein the}^ were composed, may 
peradventure please by the power of contrast. 

I hare just remarked that one ot the greatest beauties 
of these ancient ditties is naivete of thought and sim- 
plicity of expression. These I shall endeavor to preserve as 
far as possible in the translation, though I am fully con- 
scious how much the sparkling beauty of an original 
loses in being filtered through the idioms of a foreign 
language. 

Th^ favorite theme of the ancient lyric poets of the 
North of France is the wayward passion of love. They 
all delight to. sing ^' les douces dolors et limal plaisant de 
fine amor.^^ With such feelings the beauties of the open- 
ing spring are naturally associated. Almost every love- 
ditty of the old poets commences with some such ex- 
6 



82 THE TBOUVERES. 

ordium as this : — "When the snows of winter have passed 
away, when the soft and gentle spring returns, and the 
flower and leaf shoot in the groves, and the little birds 
warble to their mates in their own sweet language, — 
then will I sing my lady-love." 

Another favorite introduction to these little rhapsodies 
of romantic passion is the approach of morning, and its 
sweet- voiced herald, the lark. The minstrel's song to his 
lady-love frequently commences with an allusion to the 
hour. 

"When the rose-bud opes its een, 
And the bluebells droop and die, 
And upon the leaves so green 
Sparkling dew-drops lie." 

The following is at once the simplest and prettiest 
piece of this kind which I have ever met with among 
the early lyric poets of the North of France. It is taken 
from an anonymous poem, entitled " The Paradise of 
Love." A lover, having passed the "livelong night in 
tears, as he was wont," goes forth to beguile his sorrows 
with the fragrance and beauty of morning. The carol of 
the vaulting skylark salutes his ear, and to this merry 
musician he makes his complaint. 

** Hark ! hark 1 

Pretty lark 1 ^ 

Little heedest thou my pain I 
But if to these longing arms 
Pitying Love would yield the charms 

Of the fair 

With smiling air, 
Blithe would beat my heart again. 



THE TR0UV£]UE8, 83 

"Hark I hark I 

Pretty lark ! 
Little heedest thou my pain I 
Love may force me still, to bear, 
WMle he lists, consuming care* 

But in anguish 

Though I languish, 
Faithful shall my heart remain. 

" Hark I hark ! 

Pretty lark ! 
Little heedest thou my pain I 
Then cease, Love, to torment me so ; 
But rather than all thoughts forego 

Of the fair 

With flaxen hair, 
Give me back her frowns again. 

*' Hark ! hark I 
Pretty lark I 
Little heedest thou my pain I " 

Besides the '' woeful ballad made to his mistress's eve- 
brow," the early lyric poet frequently indulges in more 
calmly analyzing the philosophy of love, or in questioning 
the objetit and destination of a sigh. Occasionally these 
quaint conceits are prettily expressed, and the little song 
flutters through the page like a butterfly. The following 
is an example : — 

" And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 
Breathed so softly in my ear ? 
Say, dost thou bear his fate severe 
To Love's poor martyr doomed to die? 
Come, tell me quickly, — do not lie; 

What secret message brings't thou here? 
And whither goest thou, gentle sigii, 
Breathed so softly in my ear? 



84 THE TROUYEBES. 

" May Heaven conduct thee to thy will, 

And safely speed thee on thy way ; 

This only I would humbly pray, — 
Pierce deep, — but ! forbear to kill. 
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 

Breathed so softly in my ear ? " 

The ancient lyric poets of France are generally spoken 
of as a class, and tlieir beauties and defects referred to 
tliem collectiyely, and not individually. In truth, there 
are few characteristic marks by which any individual au- 
thor can be singled out and ranked above the rest. The 
lyric poets of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries 
stand nearly upon the same level. But in the fifteenth 
century there were two who surpassed all their contem- 
poraries in the beauty and delicacy of their sentiments ; 
and in the sweetness of their diction, and the structure 
of their verse, stand far in advance of the age in which 
they lived. These are Charles d'Orleans and Olotilde de 
Surville. 

Charles, Duke of Orleans, the father of Louis XII., 
and uncle of Francis I., was born in 1391. In the general 
tenor of his life, the peculiar character of his mind, and 
his talent for poetry, there is a striking resemblance be- 
tween this noble poet and James I. of Scotland, his con- 
temporary. Both were remarkable for learning and re- 
finement ; both passed a great portion of their lives in 
sorrow and imprisonment ; and both cheered the solitude 
of their prison-walls with the charms of poetry. Charles 
d'Orleans was taken prisoner at the battle of Agincourt, 
in 1415, and carried into England, where he remained 
twenty-five years in captivity. It was there that he 
composed the gTeater part of his poetry. In 1440 he 
returned to France where he died in 1467. 



THE TROUVEREB. .85 

The poems of this writer exhibit a singular delicacy of 
thought and sweetness of expression. The following little 
RenouveauXy or songs on the return of spring, are full of 
delicacy and beauty. 

" Now Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, 
And clothes him in the embroidery 
Of ghttering sun and clear blue sky. 
With beast and bird the forest rings, 
Each in his jargon cries or sings ; 
And Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 

** Kiver, and fount, and tinkling brook 

Wear in their dainty livery 

Drops of silver Jewelry; 
In new-made suit they merry look ; 

And Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and raia." 

The second upon the same subject presents a still more 
agreeable picture of the departure of winter and the 
sweet return of spring. 

** Gentle spring ! — in sunshine clad. 
Well dost thou thy power display I 
For winter maketh the light heart sad. 

And thou, — thou makest the sad heart, gay. 
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain ; 
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear. 
When thy merry step draws near. 

• Winter giveth the fields and the trees so old 
Their beards of icicles and snow ; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold. 
We must cower over the embers low ; 



86 THE TBOXTVMES. 

And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, 
Mope like birds that are changing feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear. 
When thy merry step draws near. 

" Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 
Wrap him round in a mantle of cloud ; 
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 
And the earth looks bright, — and winter surly, 
Who has toiled for naught both late and early, 
Is banished afar by the new-born year, 

When thy merry step draws near." 

The only person of that age who can dispute the laurel 
with Charles d'Orleans is Olotilde de Surville. This 
sweet poetess was born in the Bas-Vivarais, in the year 
1405. Her style is singularly elegant and correct ; and 
the reader who will take the trouble to decipher her rude 
provincial orthography will find her writings full of quiet 
beauty. The following sweet lines, which breathe the very 
soul of maternal tenderness, are part of a little poem to 
her first-born. 

" Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 
Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast ! 

** Upon that tender eye, my little friend. 

Soft sleep shall come that cometh not to me ! 
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; — 
'Tis sweet to watch for thee, — alone for thee I 

** His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; 

His eye is closed ; he sleeps, — how still and calm t 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, 
Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm ? 



THE thowMbs. 87 

** Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with affright I 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! — unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light I 
Even at the price of thine, give me repose I 

*' Sweet error ! — he but slept ; — I breathe again ; 
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile I 
0, when shall he for whom I sigh in vain 
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? " 



But upon this theme I have wriiien enough, perhaps 
too much. 

** * This may be poetry, for aught I know,' 

Says an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning 
Over my shoulder as I write, — ' although 
I can't exactly comprehend its meaning.' " 

I have touched upon the subject before me in a brief 
and desultory manner, and have purposely left my re- 
marks unemcumbered by learned reference and far-sought 
erudition ; for these are ornaments which would ill be- 
come so trivial a pen as this wherewith I write, though, 
perchance, the want of them will render my essay unsat- 
isfactory to the scholar and the critic. But I am em- 
boldened thus to skim with a light wing over this poetic 
lore of the past, by the reflection that the greater part 
of my readers belong not to that grave and serious class 
who love the deep wisdom which lies in quoting from a 
quaint, forgotten tome, and are ready on all occasions to 
say, " Commend me to the owl I " 



THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 



The more you mow us down, the thicker we rise ; the Christian blood you 
spill is like the seed you sow,— it springs Irom the earth again and fructifies the 
more. 

Tertullian. 



As day was drawing to a close, and the rays of tlie 
setting sun climbed slowly up the dungeon wall, 
the prisoner sat and read in a tome with silver clasps. 
He was a man in the vigor of his days, with a pale and 
noble countenance, that wore less the marks of worldly 
care than of high and holy thought. His temples were 
already bald ; but a thick and curling beard bespoke the 
strength of manhood ; and his eye, dark, full, and elo- 
quent, beamed with all the enthusiasm of a martyr. 

The book before him was a volume of the early Chris- 
tian Fathers. He was reading the Apologetic of the elo- 
quent Tertullian, the oldest and ablest writer of the Latin 
Church. At times he paused, and raised his eyes to 
heaven as if in prayer, and then read on again in silence. 
At length a passage seemed to touch his inmost soul. 
He read aloud :— 

'*Give us, then, what names you please; from the 
instruments of cruelty you torture us by, call us Sarmen- 
ticians and Semaxians, because you fasten us to trunks of 
trees, and stick us about with fagots to set us on fire ; yet 
let me tell you, when we are thus begirt and dressed 
about with fire, we are then in our most illustrious apparel. 
These are our victorious palms and robes of glory ; and, 
88 



THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 89 

mounted on our funeral pile, we look upon ourselves as 
in our triumphal chariot. No wonder, then, such pas- 
siye heroes please not those they vanquish with such con- 
quering sufferings. And therefore we pass for men of 
despair, and violently bent upon our own destruction. 
However, that which you are pleased to call madness and 
despair in us are the very actions which, under virtue's 
standard, lift up your sons of fame and glory, and embla- 
zon them to future ages." 

He arose and paced the dungeon to and fro, with folded 
arms and a firm ste23. His thoughts held communion 
with eternity. 

'^Father which art in heaven ! " he exclaimed, "give 
me strength to die « like those holy men of old, who 
scorned to purchase life at the expense of truth. That 
truth has made me free ; and though condemned on earth, 
I know that I am absolved in heaven !" 

He again seated himself at his table, and read in thai 
tome with silver clasps. 

This solitary prisoner was Anne Du Bourgj a man who 
feared not man ; once a merciful judge in that august 
tribunal upon whose voice hung the life and death of those 
who were persecuttd for conscience' sake, he was now 
himself an accused, a convicted heretic, condemned to the 
Baptism of Fire, because he would not unrighteously con- 
demn others. He had dared to plead the cause of suffer- 
ing humanity before that dread tribunal, and, in the 
presence of the king himself, to declare that it was an 
offence to the majesty of God to shed man's blood in his 
name. Six v/eary months — from June to December — he 
had lain a prisoner in that dungeon, from which a death 
by fire was soon to set him free. Such was the clemency 
of Henry II. ! 



90 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 

As the prisoner read, his eyes were filled with tears. 
He still gazed upon the printed page, but it was a blank 
before his eyes. His thoughts were far away amid the 
scenes of his childhood, amid the green valleys of Kiom 
and the Golden Mountains of Auvergne. Some simple 
word had called up the vision of the past. He was a 
child again. He was playing with the pebbles of the 
brook, — -he was shouting to the echo of the hills, — he 
was playing at his mother's knee, with his little hands 
clasped in hers. 

This dream of childhood was broken by the grating of 
bolts and bars, as the jailer opened the prison-door. A 
moment afterward, his former colleague, De Harley, 
stood at his side. 

" Thou here ! " exclaimed the prisoner, surprised at 
the visit. '^ Thou in the dungeon of a heretic ! On 
what errand hast thou come ? " 

"On an errand of mercy," replied De Harley. "I 
come to tell thee " 

** That the hour of my death draws near ?" 

"That thou mayst still be saved." 

"Yes ; if I will bear false witness against my God, — 
barter heaven for earth, — an eternity for a few brief days 
of worldly existence. Lost, thou shouldst say, — lost, not 
saved ! " 

" No ! saved ! " cried De Harley with warmth ; " saved 
from a death of shame and an eternity of woe ! Eenounce 
this false doctrine, — this abominable heresy, — and return 
asfain to the bosom of the church which thou dost rend 
with strife and dissension." 

" God judge between thee and me, which has embraced 
the truth." 

"His hand already smites thee." 



THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 91 

"It has fallen more heavily upon those who so unjustly 
persecute me. Where is the king ? — he who said that 
with his own eyes he would behold me perish at the 
stake ? — he to whom the undaunted Du Faur cried, like 
Elijah to Ahab, ' It is thou who troublest Israel ! '— 
Where is the king ? CaHed, through a sudden and vio- 
lent death, to the judgment-seat of Heaven ! — Where is 
Minard, the persecutor of the just ? Slain by the hand 
of an assassin ! It was not without reason that I said to 
him, when standing before my accusers, ' Tremble ! be- 
lieve the word of one who is about to appear before God ; 
thou likewise shalt stand there soon, — thou that sheddest 
the blood of the children of peace.' He has gone to his 
account before me." 

" And that menace has hastened thine own condem- 
nation. Minard was slain by the Huguenots, and it is 
whispered that thou wast priv}^ to his death. " 

'^ This, at least, might have been spared a dying man ! " 
replied the prisoner, much agitated by so unjust and so 
unexpected an accusation. ^^ As I hope for mercy here- 
after, I am innocent of the blood of this man, and of all 
knowledge of so foul a crime. But, tell me, hast thou 
come here only to embitter my last hours with such an 
accusation as this ? If so, I pray thee, leave me. My 
moments are precious. I would be alone." 

"I came to offer thee life, freedom, and happiness." 

'' Life, — freedom, — happiness ! At the price thou hast 
set upon them, I scorn them all ! Had the apostles and 
martyrs of the early Christian Church listened to such 
paltry bribes as these, where were now the faith in which 
we trust ? These holy men of old shall answer for me. 
Hear what Justin Martyr says, in his earnest appeal to 
Antonine the Pious, in behalf of the Christians who in 



92 THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 

his day were unjustly loaded with public odium and op« 
pression." 

He opened the Yolume before him and read : — 

"I could wish you would take this also into considera- 
tion, that what we say is really for your own good ; for it 
is in our power at any time to escape your torments by 
denying the faith, when you question us about it : but 
we scorn to purchase life at the expense of a lie ; for our 
souls are winged With a desire of a life of eternal duration 
and purity, of an immediate conversation with God, the 
Father and Maker of all things. We are in haste to be 
confessing and finishing our faith ; being fully persuaded 
that we shall arrive at this blessed state, if we approve 
ourselves to God by our works, and by our obedience 
express our passion for that divine life which is never 
interrupted by any clashing evil." 

The Catholic and the Hug-nenot reasoned long and 
earnestly together ; but they reasoned in vain. , Each was 
firm in his belief ; and they parted to meet no more on 
earth. 

On the following day, Du Bourg was summoned before 
his judges to receive his final sentence. He heard it 
unmoved, and with a prayer to God that he would par- 
don those who had condemned him according to their 
consciences. He then addressed his judges in an oration 
full of power and eloquence. It closed with these words : — 

'' And now, ye judges, if, indeed, you hold the sword 
of God as ministers of his wrath, to take vengeance upon 
those who do evil, beware, I charge you, beware how you 
condemn us. Consider well what evil we have done ; 
and, before all things, decide whether it be just that we 
should listen unto you rather than unto God. Are you 
so drunken with the wine-cup of the great sorceress, that 



THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 95 

you drink poison for nourishment ? Are you not those 
who make the people sin, by turning them away from the 
service of God ? And if you regard more the opinion of 
men than that of Heaven, in what esteem are you held by 
other nations, and principalities, and powers, for the 
martyrdoms you have caused in obedience to this blood- 
stained Phalaris ? G od grant, thou cruel tyrant, that by 
thy miserable death thou mayst put an end to our 
groans ! 

'^ Why weep ye ? What means this delay ? Your 
hearts are heavy within you, — your consciences are haunted 
by the judgment of God. And thus it is that the con- 
demned rejoice in the fires you have kindled, and think 
they never live better than in the midst of consuming 
flames. Torments affright them not, — insults enfeeble 
them not ; their honor is redeemed by death, — he that 
dies is the conqueror, and the conquered he that mourns. 

^' JSTo ! whatever snares are spread for us, whatever 
suffering we endure, you cannot separate us from the love 
of Christ. Strike, then, — slay, — grind us to powder ! 
Those that die in the Lord shall live again ; we shall all 
be raised together. Condemn me as you will, — I am a 
Christian ; yes, I am a Christian, and am ready to die for 
the glory of our Lord, — for the truth of the Evangelists. 

^' Quench, then, your fires ! Let the wicked abandon 
his way, and return unto the Lord, and he will have com- 
passion on him. Live, — be happy, — and meditate on 
God, ye judges ! As for me, I go rejoicing to my death. 
What wait ye for ? Lead me to the scaffold ! " 

They bound the prisoner's hands, and, leading him 
forth from the council-chamber, placed him upon the 
cart that was to bear him to the Place de Greve. Before 
and behind marched a guard of five hundi'ed soldiers ; for 



94 TBE BAPTISM OF FIBE. 

Du Bo org was beloved by the people, and a popular 
tumult was apprehended. The day was overcast and sad ; 
and ever and anon the sound of the tolling bell mingled 
its dismal clang with the solemn notes of the funeral 
march. They soon reached the place of execution, which 
v/as already filled with a dense and silent crowd. In the 
centre stood the gallows, with a pile of fagots beneath it, 
and the hangman with a burning torch in his hand. But 
this funeral apparel inspired no terror in the heart of Du 
Bourg. A look of triumph beamed from his eye, and his 
countenance shone like that of an angel. With his own 
hands he divested himself of his outer garments^ and, 
gazing round upon the breathless and sympathizing crowd, 
exclaimed, — 

"My friends, I come not hither as a tliief or a mur- 
derder ; but it is for the Gospel's sake !" 

A cord was then fastened round his waist, and he was 
drawn up into the air. At the same moment the burning 
torch of the executioner was applied to the fagots beneath, 
and the thick volumes of smoke concealed the martyr from 
the horror-stricken crowd. One stifled groan arose from 
all that vast multitude, like the moan of the sea, and all 
was hushed again ; save the crackling of the fagots, and 
at intervals the funeral knell, that smote the very soul. 
The quivering flames darted upward and around ; and an 
agonizing cry broke from the murky cloud, — 

"My God ! my God! forsake me not, that I forsake 
not thee ! " 

The wind lifted the reddening smoke like a veil, and the 
form of the martyr was seen to fall into the fire beneath, 
that glowed like a furnace seven times heated. In a 
moment it rose again, its garments all in flame ; and again 
the faint, half-smothered cry of agony was heard,— 



THE BAPTISM OF FIRE. 95 

'' My God ! my G-od ! forsake me not, that 1 forsake 
not thee ! " 

Once more the quivering body descended into the 
flames ; and once more it was hfted into the air, a black- 
ened, burning cinder. Again and again this fiendish 
mockery of baptism was repeated ; till the martyr, with 
a despairing, sutfocating voice, exclaimed, — 

" God ! I cannot die ! " 

The executioner came forward, and, either in mercy to 
the dying man or through fear of the populace, threw a 
noose over his neck, and strangled the almost lifeless vic- 
tim. At the same moment the cord which held the body 
was loosened, and it fell into the fire to rise no more. 
And thus was consummated the martyrdom of the Bap- 
tism of Fire. 



coq-1-L'1ne. 

My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass, 

Wherein ray imaginations run like sands, " 

Filling up time ; but then are turned, and turned, 

So that I know not what to stay upon 

And less to put in art. 

Ben Jonsow. 

AKAINY and gloomy winter was just drawing to it« 
close, when I left Paris for the South of France. 
We started at sunrise ; and as we passed along the soli- 
tary streets of the yast and silent metropolis, drowsily one 
by one its clanging horologes chimed the hour of six. 
Beyond the city gates the wide landscape was covered 
with a silvery network of frost ; a wreath of vapor over- 
hung the windings of the Seine ; and every twig and 
shrub, with its sheath of crystal, flashed in the level rays 
of the rising sun. The sharp, frosty air seemed to quicken 
the sluggish blood of the old postilion and his horses ; — • 
a fresh team stood ready in harness at each stage ; and 
notwithstandmg the slippery pavement of the causeway, 
the long and tedious climbing the hillside upward, and 
the equally long and tedious descent with chained wheels 
and the drag, just after nightfall the lumbering vehicle 
of Vincent Caillard stopped at the gateway of the " Three 
Emperors," in the famous city of Orleans. 

I cannot pride myself much upon being a good travel- 
ling companion, for the rocking of a coach always lulls 
me into f orgetfulness of the present ; and no sooner does 
the hollow, monotonous rumbling of the wheels reach my 



coq-1-vlNE. 97 

ear, than, like my friend Nick Bottom, "I liave an expo- 
sition of sleep come upon me." It is not, lioweyer, the 
deep, sonorous slumber of a laborer, "stulfed with, dis 
trcssful bread," but a kind of day-dream, wherein the 
creations of fancy seem realities, and the real world, 
which swims dizzily before the half -shut, drowsy eye, be- 
comes mingled with the imaginary world within. This is 
doubtless a very great failing in a traveller ; and I confess, 
with all humility, that at times the line of demarcation 
between truth and fiction is rendered thereby so indefinite 
and indistinct, that I cannot always determine, with un- 
erring certainty, whether an event really hapi^ened to me, 
or whether I only dreamed it. 

On this account I shall not attempt a detailed descrip- 
tion of my journey from Paris to Bordeaux. I was trav- 
elling like a bird of passage ; and five weary days and 
four Yv^eary nights I was on the way. The diligence 
stopped only to change horses, and for the travellers to 
take their meals ; and by night I slei3t with my head 
under my wing in a snug corner of the coach. 

Strange as it may appear to some of my readers, this 
night-travelling is at times far from being disagreeable ; 
nay, if the country is flat and uninteresting, and you are 
favored with a moon, it may be very pleasant. As the 
night advances, the conversation around you gradually 
dies away, and is imperceptibly given up to some gaiTu- 
lous traveller who finds himself belated in the midst of a 
long story ; and when at length he puts out his feelers in 
the form cf a question, discovers, by the silence around 
him, that the breathless attention of his audience is ow- 
ing to their being asleep. All is now silent. You let 
down the window of the carriage, and the fresh night-air 
cools your flushed and burning cheek. The landscape, 
7 



98 COq-1-VANE, 

thougli in reality dull and uninteresting, seems beautiful 
as it floats by in the soft moonshine. Every ruined hoyel 
is changed by the magic of night to a trim cottage, every 
straggling and dilapidated hamlet becomes as beautiful 
as those we read of in poetry and romance. Over the 
lowland hangs a silver mist ; over the hills peep the 
twinkling stars. The keen night-air is a spur to the pos- 
tilion and his horses. In the words of the German bal- 
lad, — 

*' Halloo ! halloo ! away they go, 

Unheeding wet or dry, 
And horse and rider snort and bJow, 

And sparlding pebbles fly. 
And all on which the moon doth shine 

Behind them flees afar. 
And backward sped, scud overhead, 

The sky and every star." 

Anon you stop at the relay. The drowsy hostler crawls 
out of the stable-yard ; a few gruff words and strange 
oaths pass between him and the postilion, — then there is 
a coarse joke in jjatois, of which you understand the 
ribaldry only, and which is followed by a husky laugh, a 
sound between a hiss and a growl ; — and then you are off 
again in a crack. Occasionally a way-traveller is uncaged, 
and a new-comer takes the vacant perch at your elbow. 
Meanwhile your busy fancy SjDeculates upon all these 
things, and you fall asleep amid its thousand vagaries. 
Soon you wake again, and snuff the morning air. It was 
but a moment, and yet the night is gone. The gray of 
twilight steals into the window, and gives a ghastly look 
to the countenances of the sleeping group around you. 
One sits bolt upright in a corner, offending none, and 
stiff and motionless as an Egyptian mummy ; another sits 



COQ-A-rlNE. 99 

fiqiially straight and immovable, but snores like a priest ; 
the head of a third is dangling over his shoulder, and the 
tassel of his nightcap tickles his neighbor's ear ; a fourth 
has lost his hat, — his wig is awry, and his nnder-lip hang's 
lolling about like an idiot's. The whole scene is a living 
caricature of man, presenting human nature in some of 
the gi'otesque attitudes she assumes, when that pragmati- 
cal schoolmaster. Propriety, has fallen asleep in his chair, 
and the unruly members of his charge are freed from the 
thraldom of the rod. 

On leaving Orleans, instead of following the great 
western mail-route through Tours, Poitiers, and Angou- 
leme, and thence on to Bordeaux, I struck across the de- 
partments of the Indre, Haute- Vienne, and the Dor- 
dogne, passing through the provincial capitals of Chateau- 
roux, Limoges, and Perigueux. South of the Loire the 
country assumes a more mountainous asj)ect, and the 
landscape is broken by long sweeping hills and fertile 
valleys. Many a fair scene invites the traveller's foot to 
pause ; and his eye roves with delight over the picturesque 
landscape of the valley of the Creuse, and the beautiful 
highland scenery near Perigueux. There are also many 
objects of art and antiquity which arrest his attention. 
Argenton boasts its Roman amphitheatre, and the ruins 
of an old castle built by King Pepin ; at Chalus the 
tower beneath which Richard Oceur-de-Lion was slain is 
still pointed out to the curious traveller ; and Perigueux 
is full of crumbling monuments of the Middle Ages. 

Scenes like these, and the constant chatter of my fel- 
low-travellers, served to enliven the tedium of a long and 
fatiguing journey. The French are pre-eminently a talking 
people ; and every new object afforded a topic for light 
and animated discussion. The aftairs of church and 



100 GOQ-A-UANE. 

state were, however, the themes oftenest touched upon. 
The bill for the suppression of the liberty of the press 
was then under discussion in the Chamber of Peers, and 
excited the most lively interest through the whole king» 
dom. Of course it was a subject not likely to be forgotten 
in a stage-coach. 

"Ah! mon Dieu !" said a brisk little man, with snow- 
white hair and a blazing red face, at the same time draw- 
ing up his shoulders to a level with his ears; ''the ministry 
are determined to cany their point at all events. They 
mean to break down the liberty of the press, cost what it 

will/' 

*' If they succeed," added the person who sat opposite, 
" we may thank the Jesuits for it. It is all their work. 
They rule the mind of our imbecile monarch, and it is 
their miserable policy to keep the people in darkness.'* 

"No doubt of that," rejoined the first speaker. 
''Why, no longer ago than yesterday I read in the Eigaro 
that a printer had been prosecuted for publishing the 
moral lessons of the Evangelists without the miracles." 

"Is it possible ?" said I. "And are the people so 
stupid as thus patiently to offer their shoulders to the 
pack-saddle ? " 

"Most certainly not! We shall have another revo- 
lution." 

"If history speaks true, you have had revolutions 
enough, during the last century or two, to satisfy the 
most mercurial nation on earth. You have hardly been 
quiet a moment since the day of the Barricades and the 
memorable Avar of the pots-de-chamhre in the times of 
the Grand Conde." 

" You are pleased to speak lightly of our revolutions, 
sir/' rejoined the politician, growing warm. " You must, 



COQ-l-VlNK 101 

howeyer, confess that each successive one has brought us 
nearer to our object. Old institutions, whose foundations 
lie deep in the prejudices of a great nation, are not to be 
toppled down by the springing of a single mine. You 
must confess, too, that our national character is much 
improved since the days you speak of. The youth of 
the present century are not so frivolous as those of the 
last. They have no longer that unbounded levity and 
Light-heartedness so generally ascribed to them. From 
this circumstance we have everything to hope. Our 
revolutions, likewise, must necessarily change their char- 
acter and secure to us more solid advantages than hereto- 
fore." 

" Luck makes pluck, as the Germans say. You go on 
bravely; but it gives me pain to see religion and the 
church so disregarded." 

" Superstition and the church, you mean," said th6 
gray-headed man. **Why, sir, the church is nothing 
now-a-days but a tumble-down, dilapidated tower for 
rooks and daws, and such silly birds, to build their 
nests in ! " 

It was now very evident that I had unearthed a radi- 
cal ; and there is no knowing when his harangue would 
have ended, had not his voice been drowned by the noise 
of the wheels, as we entered the paved street of the city 
of Limoges. 

A breakfast of boiled capon stuffed with truffles, and 
accompanied by a PdU de Perigueux, a dish well known 
to French gourmands, restored us all to good humor. 
While we were at breakfast, a personage stalked into the 
room whose strange appearance arrested my attention, and 
gave subject for future conversation to our party. He 
was a tall, thin figure, armed with a long whip, brass 



102 COQ-A-rANE, 

spurs, and black whiskers. He wore a bell-crowned, var- 
nished hat, a blue frock-coat with standing collar, a red 
waistcoat, a pair of yellow leather breeches, and boots that 
reached to the knees. I at first took him for a postilion, 
or a private courier ; but, upon inquiry, I found that he 
was only the son of a notary-public, and that he dressed 
in this strange fashion to please his own fancy. 

As soon as we were comfortably seated in the diligence, 
I made some remark on the singular costume of the per- 
sonage whom I had just seen at the tavern. 

"These things are so common with us," said the poli- 
tician, " that we hardly notice them." 

" What you want in liberty of speech, then, you make 
up in liberty of dress ? " 

" Yes ; in this, at least, we are a free people." 

" I had not been long in France, before I discovered 
that a man may dress as he pleases, without being stared 
at. The most opposite styles of dress seem to be in vogue 
at the same moment. No strange garment nor desperate 
hat excites either ridicule or surprise. French fashions 
are known and imitated all the world over." 
-■•'^Verytrue, indeed," said a little man in gosling-green. 
"We give fashions to all other nations." 

" Fashions ! " said the politician, with a kind of growl, 
— " fashions ! Yes, sir, and some of us are simple enough 
to boast of it, as if we were a nation of tailors." 

Here the little man in gosling-green pulled up the 
horns of his cotton dicky. 

"I recollect," said I, "that your Madame de Pompa- 
dour in one of her letters says something to this effect : 
* We furnish our enemies with hair-dressers, ribbons, and 
fashions ; and they furnish us with laws.'" 

" That is not the only silly thing she said in her life- 



COq-l-VlNE. 103 

time. Ah! sir, these Pompadours and Maintenons, and 
Montespans were the authors of much woe to France. 
Their follies and extravagances exhausted the public 
treasury, and made the nation poor. They built palaces, 
and covered themselves with jewels, and ate from golden 
plate ; while the people who toiled for them had hardly a 
crust to keep their own children from starvation ! And 
yet they preach to us the divine right of kings I " 

My radical had got upon his high horse again ; and I 
know not whither it would have carried him, had not a 
thin man with a black, seedy coat, who sat at his elbow, 
at that moment crossed his path by one of those abmpt 
and sudden transitions which leave you aghast at the 
strange association of ideas in the speaker's mind. 

^'Apropos de bottesf" exclaimed he, "speaking of 
boots, and notaries public, and such matters, — excuse me 
for interrupting you, sir, — a little story has just popped 
into my head which may amuse the company ; and as I 
am not very fond of political discussions, — no offence, 
sir, — I will tell it for the sake of changing the conver- 
sation." 

Whereupon, without further preamble or apology, he 
proceeded to tell his story in, as nearly as may be, the f oL 
lowing words. 



THE NOTARY OF Pi:RIGUEUX. 



Do not tnist thy body with a physician. He'll make thy foolish bones go 
without flesh in a fortnight, and thy soul walk without a body a gen-night after. 

Shirley. 



YOU must know, gentlemen, that there lived some 
years ago, in the city of Perigueux, an honest no- 
tary-public, the descendant of a very ancient and broken- 
down family, and the occupant of one of those old 
weather-beaten tenements which remind you of the times 
of your great-grandfather. He was a man of an unoffend- 
ing, sheepish disposition ; the father of a family, though 
not the head of it,- — for in that family '^ the hen over- 
crowed the cock," and the neighbors, when they spake 
of the notary, shrugged their shoulders, and exclaimed, 
** Poor fellow ! his spurs want sharpening." In fine, — 
you understand me, gentlemen, — he was a hen-pecked 
man. 

Well, finding no peace at home, he sought it elsewhere, , 
as was very natural for him to do ; and at length discov- 
ered a place of rest, far beyond the cares and clamors 
of domestic life. This was a little Cafe Estaminet^ a 
short way out of the city, whither he repaired every even- 
ing to smoke his pipe, drink sugar-water, and play his 
favorite game of domino. There he met the boon com- 
panions he most loved ; heard all the floating chitchat 
of the day ; laughed when he was in merry mood ; found 
consolation when he was sad ; and at all times gave vent 
104 



THE NOTAR Y OF P^EIG UEUX. 105 

to Ms opinions, without fear of being snubbed short by a 
flat contradiction. 

Now, the notary's bosom-friend was a dealer in claret 
and cognac, who lived about a league from the city, and 
always passed his evenings at the Kstaminet. He was a 
gross, corpulent fellow, raised from a full-blooded Gascon 
breed, and sired by a comic actor of some reputation in 
his way. He was remarkable for nothing but his good- 
humor, his love of cards, and a strong propensity to test 
the quality of his own liquors by comparing them with 
those sold at other places. 

As evil communications corrupt good manners, the 
bad practices of the wine-dealer won insensibly upon the 
worthy notary ; and before he was aware of it, he found 
himself weaned from domino and sugar-water, and ad- 
dicted to picquet and spiced wine. Indeed, it not un- 
frequently happened, that, after a long session at the 
Estaminet, the two friends grew so urbane, that they 
would waste a full half -hour at the door in friendly dis- 
pute which should conduct the other home. 

Though this course of life agreed well enough with the 
sluggish, phlegmatic temperament of the wine-dealer, it 
soon began to play the very dense with the more sensi- 
tive organization of the notary, and finally put his ner- 
vous system completely out of tune. He lost his appe- 
tite, became gaunt and haggard, and could get no sleep. 
Legions of blue-devils haunted him by day, and by night 
strange faces peeped through his bed-curtains, and the 
nightmare snorted in his ear. The worse he grew, the 
more he smoked and tippled; and the more he smoked and 
tippled, — why, as a matter of course, the worse he grew. 
His wife alternately stormed, remonstrated, entreated; but 
all in vain. She made the house too hot for him, — he re- 



106 THE NO TAR Y OF PMIO tIEJJX. 

treated to the tavern ; she broke his long-stemmed pipes 
upon the andirons, — he substituted a short-stemmed one, 
which, for safe keeping, he carried in his waistcoat-pocket. 

Thus the unhappy notary ran gradually down at the 
heel. What with his bad habits and his domestic griev- 
ances, he became completely hipped. He imagined that 
he was going to die ; and suffered in quick succession all 
the diseases that ever beset mortal man. Every shooting 
pain was an alarming symptom, — every uneasy feeling 
after dinner a sure prognostic of some mortal disease. 
In vain did his friends endeavor to reason, and then to 
laugh him out of his strange whims ; for when did ever 
jest or reason cure a sick imagination ? His only answer 
was, " Do let me alone ; I know better than you what 
ails me." 

Well, gentlemen, things were in this state, when, one 
afternoon in December, as he sat moping in his oflSce, 
wrapped in ah overcoat, with a cap on his head and his 
feet thrust into a pair of furred slippers, a cabriolet stop- 
ped at the door, and a loud knocking without aroused 
him from his gloomy revery. It was a message from his 
friend the wine-dealer, who had been suddenly attacked 
with a violent fever, and, growing worse and worse, had 
now sent in the greatest haste for the notary to draw up 
his last will and testament. The case was urgent, and 
admitted neither excuse nor delay ; and the notary, tying 
a handkerchief round his face, and buttoning up to the 
chin, jumped into the cabriolet, and suffered himself, 
though not without some dismal presentiments and mis- 
givings of heart, to be driven to the wine-dealer's house. 

When he arrived, he found everything in the greatest 
confusion. On entering the house, he ran against the 
apothecary, who wae coming down stairs, with a face as 



THE NOTAR Y OF PJ^RIG UEUX. \xjl 

long as your arm, and the pharmaceutical instruments 
somewhat longer ; and a few steps farther he met the 
housekeeper — -for the wine-dealer was an old bachelor — 
running up and down, and wringing her hands, for fear 
that the good man should die without making his will. 
He soon reached the chamber of his sick friend, and 
found him tossing about under a huge pile of bedclothes, 
in a paroxysm of fever, calling aloud for a draught of 
cold water. The notary shook his head ; he thought this 
a fatal symptom ; for ten years back the wine-dealer had 
been suffering under a species of hydrophobia, which 
seemed suddenly to have left him. 

When the sick man saw who stood by his bedside, he 
stretched out his hand and exclaimed, — 

^'Ah ! my dear friend ! have you come at last ? You 
see it is all over with me. You have arrived just in time 
to draw up that — that passport of mine. Ah, grand 
diahle ! how hot it is here ! Water, — water, — ^water ! 
Will nobody give me a drop of cold water ? " 

As the case was an urgent one, the notary made no 
delay in getting his papers in readiness ; and in a short 
time the last will and testament of the wine-dealer was 
drawn up in due form, the notary guiding the sick man's 
hand as he scrawled his signature at the bottom. 

As the evening wore away, the wine-dealer grew worse 
and worse, and at length became delirious, mingling in 
his incoherent ravings the phrases of the Credo and Pat- 
ernoster with the shibboleth of the dram-shop and the 
card-table. 

"Take care 1 take care! There, now — Credo in — 
Pop ! ting-a-ling-ling ! give me some of that. Cent-6- 
dize ! Why, you old publican, this wine is poisoned, — I 
know your tricks ! — Sanctam ecdesiam cat JioUcam'— Well, 



108 THE NOTAR T OF P^RIO UEUX, 

well, we shall see. Imbecile ! to have a tierce-major and 
a seven of hearts, and discard the seven ! By St. An- 
thony, capot ! You are lurched, — ha ! ha ! I told you 
so. I knew very well, — there, — there, — don't interrupt 
me — Carnis resiirrectionem et vitam eternam!" 

With these words upon his lips, the poor wine-dealer 
expired. Meanwhile the notary sat cowering over the fire, 
aghast at the fearful scene that was passing before him, and 
now and then striving to keep up his courage by a glass 
of cognac. Already his fears were on the alert ; and the 
idea of contagion flitted to and fro through his mind. In 
order to quiet these thoughts of evil import, he lighted his 
pipe and began to prepare for returning home. At that 
moment the apothecary turned round to him and said, — 

'^ Dreadful sickly time, this ! The disorder seems to 
be spreading." 

" What disorder ? " exclaimed the notary, with a move- 
ment of surprise. 

''Two died yesterday, and three to-day," continued 
the apothecary, without answering the question. " Very 
sickly time, sir— very." 

'' But what disorder is it ? What disease has carried 
off my friend here so suddenly ?" 

" What disease ? Why, scarlet fever, to be sure." 

'' And is it contagious ? " 

" Certainly ! " 

*' Then I am a dead man ! " exclaimed the notary, put- 
ting his pipe into his waistcoat-pocket, and beginning to 
walk up and down the room in despair. " I am a dead 
man ! Now, don't deceive me, — don't, will you ? What 
-^what are the symptoms ? " • .1.1 

"A sharp burning pain in the right" side," said the 
apothecary. 



THE NOTAR Y OF P^RIG UEVX, 109 

" 0, what a fool I was to come here ! Take me home 
— take me home, and let me die in the bosom of my 
family ! " 

In yain did the housekeeper and the apothecary strive 
to pacify him ; — he was not a man to be reasoned with ; 
he answered that he knew his own constitution better 
than they did, and insisted upon going home without de- 
lay. Unfortunately, the vehicle he came in had returned 
to the city ; and the whole neighborhood was abed and 
asleep. What was to be done ? Nothing in the world 
but to take the apothecary's horse, which stood hitched 
at the door, patiently, waiting his master's will. 

Well, gentlemen, as there was no remedy, our notary 
mounted this raw-boned steed, and set forth upon his 
homeward journey. The night was cold and gusty, and 
the wind set right in his teeth. Overhead the leaden 
clouds were beating to and fro, and through them the 
newly risen moon seemed to be tossing and drifting along 
like a cock-boat in the surf ; now swallowed up in a huge 
billow of cloud, and now lifted upon its bosom and dashed 
with silvery spray. The trees by the road-side groaned 
with a sound of evil omen ; and before him lay three mor- 
tal miles, beset with a thousand imaginary perils. Obe- 
dient to the whip and spur, the steed leaped forward by 
fits and starts, now dashing away in a tremendous gallop, 
and now relaxing into a long, hard trot ; while the rider, 
filled with symptoms of disease and dire presentiments 
of death, urged him on, as if he were fleeing before the 
pestilence. 

In this way, by dint of whistling and shouting, and 
beating right and left, one mile of the fatal three was 
safely passed. The apprehensions of the notary had so 
far subsided, that he even suffered the poor horse to walk 



110 THE NOTAn Y OF PJ^RIO UEUX. 

up hill ; but these apprehensions were suddenly revived 
again with tenfold violence by a sharp pain in the right 
side, which seemed to j)ierce him like a needle. 

'^ It is upon me at last ! " groaned the fear-stricken man. 
" Heaven be merciful to me, the greatest of sinners ! 
And must I die in a ditch, after all ? He ! get up, — get 
up ! " 

And away went horse and rider at full speed, — hurry- 
scurry, — up hill and down, — panting and blowing like all 
possessed. At every leap the pain in the rider's side 
seemed to increase. At first it was a little point like the 
prick of a needle, — then it spread to the size of a half- 
franc piece, — then covered a place as large as the palm of 
your hand. It gained upon him fast. The poor man 
groaned aloud in agony ; faster and faster sped the horse 
over the frozen ground, — farther and farther spread the 
pain over liis side. To complete, the dismal picture, the 
storm commenced, — snow mingled with rain. But snow, 
and rain, and cold were naught to him ; for, though his 
arms and legs were frozen to icicles, he felt it not ; the 
fatal symptom was upon him ; he was doomed to die, — 
not of cold, but of scarlet fever ! 

At length, he knew not how, more dead than alive, he 
reached the gate of the city. A band of ill-bred dogs, 
that were serenading at a corner of the street, seeing the 
notary dash by, joined in the hue and cry, and ran bark- 
ing and yelping at his heels. It was now late at night, 
and only here and there a solitary lamp twinkled from an 
upper story. But on went the notary, down this street 
and up that, till at last he reached his own door. There 
'"113 a light in liis wife's bedchamber. The good woman 
OLime to the v/indow, alarmed at such a knocking, and 
howling, and; clattering at her door so late at night ; and 



THE NOTAR T OF pMIG UEUX. m 

thie notary was too deeply absorbed in his own sorrows to 
observe that the lamp cast the shadow of two heads on 
the window-curtain. 

*^ Let me in ! let me in ! Quick ! quick ! " he exclaimed, 
almost breathless from terror and fatigue. 

*' Who are you, that come to disturb a lone woman at 
this hour of the night ? " cried a sharp voice from above. 
'^ Begone about your business, and let quiet people sleep.'' 

'* Oh, diable, diable ! Come down and let me in ! I 
am your husband. Don't you know my voice ? Quick, 
I beseech you ; for I am dying here in the street ! " 

After a few moments of delay and a few more words of 
parley, the door was opened, and the notary stalked into 
his domicile, pale and haggard in aspect, and as stiff and 
straight as a ghost. Cased from head to heel in an 
armor of ice, as the glare of the lamp fell upon him, he 
looked like a knight-errant mailed in steel. 'But in one 
place his armor was broken. On his right side was a cir- 
cular spot, as large as the crown of your hat, and about as 
black! 

'' My dear wife ! " he exclaimed, with more tenderness 
than he had exhibited for many years. " Reach me a chair. 
My hours are numbered. I am a dead man ! " 

Alarmed at these exclamations, his wife stripped off his 
overcoat. Something fell from beneath it, and was 
dashed to pieces on the hearth. It was the notary's pipe ! 
He placed his hand upon his side, and, lo ! it was bare to 
the skin ! Coat, waistcoat, and linen were burnt through 
and through, and there was a blister on his side as large 
over as your head ! 

The mystery was soon explained, symptom and all. 
The notary had put his pipe into his pocket without 
knocking out the ashes ! And so my story ends. 



112 THE NOTAR Y OF P£RIG UEUX. 

*' Is that all ?" asked the radical, Avhen the story-telleJ 
had finished. 

"That is all." 

" Well, what does your story go to prove ? " 

" That is more than I can tell. All I know is that the 
story is true. " 

" And did he die ? " said the nice little man in gosling- 
green. 

" Yes ; he died afterwards," replied the story-teller, 
rather annoyed by the question. 

"And what did he die of ?" continued gosling-green, 
following him up. 

*'What did he die of ?" winking to the rest of the 
company ; " why, he died — of a sudden ! " 



THE JOURNEY INTO SPAOT. 

▲ Tissue de Tyver que le joly temps de primavere commence, et qu'oa voit 
arbres verdoyer, fleurs espanouir, et qu'on oit les oisillons chanter entoute jole et 
doulceur, tant que les verts bocages retentissent de leurs sons et que coeurs tristes 
pensifs y dolens s'en esjouiseent, s'emeuvent a delaisser deuil et toute tristesse, 
et se parforcent a valoir mieixx. 

La Plaisante Histoire db Guerin de Monglave. 

SOFT-BREATHING Spring! how many pleasant 
thouglits, how many delightful recollections, does 
thy name awaken in the mind of the traveller ! "Whether 
he has followed thee by the banks of the Loire or the 
Guadalquiver, or traced thy footsteps slowly climbing 
the sunny slope of Alp or Apennine, the thought of thee 
shall summon up sweet yisions of the past, and thy 
golden sunshine and soft yapory atmosphere become a 
portion of his day-dreams and of him. Sweet images of 
thee, and scenes that haye oft inspired the poet's song, 
shall mingle in his recollections of the past. The shoot- 
ing of the tender leaf, — the sweetness and elasticity of 
the air, — the blue sky, — the fleet-drifting cloud, — and 
the flocks of wild fowl wheeling in long-drawn phalanx 
through the air, and screaming from their dizzy height, — 
aU these shall pass like a dream before his imagination, 

** And gently o'er his memory comes at times 
A glimpse of joys that had their birth in thee, 
Like a brief strain of some forgotten tune." 

It was at the opening of this delightful season of the 
year that I passed through the South of France, and took 
113 8 



114 THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 

the road of St. Jean de Luz for the Spanish frontier. I 
left Bordeaux amid all the noise and gayety of the last 
scene of Carnival. The streets and public walks of the 
city were full of merry groups in masks, — at every corner 
crowds were listening to the discordant music of the wan- 
dering ballad-singer ; and grotesque figures, mounted on 
high stilts, and dressed in the garb of the peasants of the 
Landes of Gascony, were stalking up and down like so 
many long-legged cranes ; others were amusing themselves 
with the tricks and gi'imaces of little monkeys, disguised 
like little men, bowing to the ladies, and figuring away in 
red coats and ruffles ; and here and there a band of chim- 
ney-sweeps were staring in stupid wonder at the miracles 
of a showman's box. In a word, all was so full of mirth 
and merrimake, that even beggary seemed to have for 
gotten that it was wretched, and gloried in the ragged 
masquerade of one poor holiday. 

To this scene of noise and gayety succeeded the silence 
and solitude of the Landes of Gascony. The road from 
Bordeaux to Bayonne winds along through immense pine- 
forests and sandy plains, spotted here and there with a 
dingy little hovel, and the silence is interrupted only by 
the dismal hollow roar of the wind among the melancholy 
and majestic pines. Occasionally, however, the way is 
enlivened by a market-town or a straggling village ; and I 
still recollect the feelings of delight which I experienced, 
when, just after sunset, we passed through the romantic 
town of Eoquefort, built upon the sides of the green val- 
ley of the Douze, which has scooped out a verdant hollow 
for it to nestle in, amid those barren tracts of sand. 

On leaving Bayonne, the scene assumes a character 
of greater beauty and sublimity. To the vast forests of 
the Landes of Gascony succeeds a scene of picturesque 



THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN. 116 

beauty, deiiglitful to the traveller's eye. Before liira rise 
the snowy Pyrenees, — a long line of undulating hills, — 

'* Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, 
Like giant capped with helm of burnished gold." 

To the left, as far as the eye can reach, stretch the deli- 
cious valleys of the Nive and Ad our ; and to the right the 
sea flashes along the pebbly margin of its silver beach, 
forming a thousand little bays and inlets, or comes tum- 
bling in among the cliffs of a rock-bound coast, and beats 
against its massive barriers with a distant, hollow, con- 
tinual roar. 

Should these pages meet the eye of any solitary trav- 
eller who is journeying into Spain by the road I here 
speak of, I would advise him to travel from Bayonne to 
St. Jean de Luz on horseback. At the gate of Bayonne 
he will find a steed ready caparisoned for him, with a 
dark-eyed Basque girl for his companion and guide, who 
is to sit beside him upon the same horse. This style of 
travelling is, I beUeve, peculiar to the Basque provinces ; 
at all events, I have seen it nowhere else. The saddle is 
constructed with a large frame- work extending on each 
side, and covered with cushions ; and the traveller and 
his guide, being placed on the opposite extremities, serve 
as a balance to each other. We overtook many travellers 
mounted in this way, and I could not help thinking it a 
mode of travelling far preferable to being cooped up in a 
diligence. The Basque girls are generally beautiful ; and 
there was one of these merry guides we met upon the 
road to Bidart whose image haunts me still. She had 
large and expressive black eyes, teeth like pearls, a rich 
and sunburnt complexion, and hair of a glossy blackness, 
parted on the forehead, and falling down behind in a 



11 6 THE JO URNEY INTO SPAW. 

large braid, so long as almost to touch the ground with 
the little ribbon that confined it at the end. She wore 
the common dress of the peasantry of the South of 
France, and a large gypsy straw hat was thrown back 
over her shoulder, and tied by a ribbon about her neck. . 
There was hardly a dusty traveller in the coach who did 
not envy her companion the seat he occupied beside her. 

Just at nightfall we entered tlie town of St. Jean de 
Luz, and dashed down its narrow streets at full gallop. 
The little madcaj) postilion cracked his knotted whip in- 
cessantly, and the sound echoed back from the high dingy 
walls like the report of a pistol. The coach-wheels nearly 
touched the houses on each side of us ; the idlei^ in the 
street jumped right and left to save themselves ; window- 
shutters flew open in all directions ; a thousand heads 
popped out from cellar and upper story ; '* Sacr-r-re 
matin I" shouted the postilion, — and we rattled on like 
an earthquake. 

St. Jean de Luz is a snioky little fishing-town, situated 
on the low grounds at the mouth of the Nivelle, and a 
bridge connects it with the faubourg of Sibourne, which 
stands on the opposite bank of the river. I had no time, 
however, to note the peculiarities of the place, for I was 
whirled out of it with the same speed and confusion with 
which I had been whirled in, and I can only recollect the 
sweep of the road across the Nivelle, — the church of Si- 
bourne by the water's edge, — the narrow streets, — the 
smoky-looking houses with red window-shutters, and *^a 
very ancient and fish-like smell." 

1 passed by moonlight the little river Bidasoa, which 
forms the boundary between France and Spain ; and when 
the morning broke, found myself far up among the moun- 
tains of San Salvador, the most westerly links of the great 



THE JO URNEY INTO SPAIN. 117 

Pyrenean chain. The mountains around me were nei- 
ther rugged nor precipitous, but they rose one above an- 
other in a long, majestic swell, and the trace of the 
ploughshare was occasionally visible to their summits. 
They seemed entirely destitute of trees ; and as the sea- 
son of vegetation had not yet commenced, their huge 
outlines lay black, and barren, and desolate against the 
sky. But it was a glorious morning, and the sun rose up 
into a cloudless heaven, and poured a flood of gorgeous 
splendor over the mountain landscape, as if proud of the 
realm he shone upon. The scene was enlivenM by the 
dashing of a swollen mountain-brook, whose course we 
followed for miles down the valley, as it leaped onward to 
its journey's end, now breaking into a white cascade, and 
now foaming and chafing beneath a rustic bridge. Now 
and then we drove through a dilapidated town, with a 
group of idlers at every corner, wrapped in tattered brown 
cloaks, and smoking their little paper cigars in the sun ; 
then would succeed a desolate tract of country, cheered 
only by the tinkle of a mule-bell, or the song of a mu- 
leteer ; thp.n we would meet a solitary traveller mounted 
on horseback, and wrapped in the ample folds of his 
cloak, with a gun hanging at the pommel of his saddle. 
Occasionally, too, among the bleak inhospitable hills, we 
passed a rude little chapel, with a cluster of ruined cot- 
tages around it ; and whenever our carriage stoj^ped at the 
relay, or loitered slowly up the hillside, a crowd of chil* 
di'en would gather around us, with little images and cru- 
cifixes for sale, curiously ornamented with ribbons and 
bits of tawdry finery. 

A day's journey from the frontier brought us to Yitoria, 
where the diligence stopped for the night. I spent the 
scanty remnant of daylight in rambling about the streets 



118 THE JO URKBT IKTO SPAIN. 

of the city, with no other guide than the whim of the 
moment. Now I plunged down a dark and narrow alley, 
now emerged into a wide street or a spacious market- 
place, and now aroused the drowsy echoes of a church or 
cloister with the sound of my intruding footsteps. But de- 
scriptions of churches and public squares are dull and 
tedious matters for those readers who are in search of 
amusement, and not of instruction ; and if any one has 
accompanied me thus far on my fatiguing journey towards 
the Spanish capital, I will readily excuse him from the toil 
of an evening ramble through the streets of Yitoiia. 

On the following morning we left Vitoria long before 
daybreak, and during our forenoon's journey the pos- 
tilion drew up at a relay on the southern slope of the 
Sierra de San Lorenzo, in the province of Old Castile. 
The house was an old, dilapidated tenement, built of 
rough stone, and coarsely plastered upon the outside. The 
tiled roof had long been the sport of wind and rain, the 
motley coat of plaster was broken and time-worn, and the 
whole building sadly out of repair ; though the fanciful 
mouldings under the eaves, and the curiously caiwed 
wood-work that supported the little balcony over the 
principal entrance, spoke of better days gone by. The 
whole building reminded me of a dilapidated Spanish 
Don, down at the heel and out at elbows, but with here 
and there a remnant of former magnificence peeping 
through the loopholes of his tattered cloak. 

A wide gateway ushered the traveller into the interior 
of the building, and conducted him to a low-roofed 
apartment, paved with round stones, and serving both as 
a court-yard and a stable. It seemed to be a neutral 
ground for man and beast, — a little republic, where horse 
and rider had common privileges, and mule and mulcted 



THE JO URNEY INTO SPAIN. 119 

lay cheek by jowl. In one corner a poor jackass was 
patiently devouring a bundle of musty straw, — in another, 
its master lay sound asleep, with his saddle-cloth for a 
pillow ; here a group of muleteers were quarrelling over a 
pack of dirty cards,— and there the village barber, with a 
self-important air, stood laving the Alcalde's chin from 
the helmet of Mambrino. On the wall, a little taper 
glimmered feebly before an image of St. Anthony ; di- 
rectly opposite these a leathern wine-bottle hung by the 
neck from a pair of ox-horns ; and the pavement below 
was covered with a curious medley of boxes, and bags, 
and cloaks, and pack-saddles, and sacks of grain, and 
skins of wine, and all kinds of lumber. 

A small door upon the right led us into the inn-kitchen. 
It was a room about ten feet square, and literally aU 
chimney ; for the heai*th was in the centre of the floor, 
and the walls sloped upward in the form of a long, nar- 
row pyramid, with an opening at the top for the escape 
of the smoke. Quite round this little room ran a row of 
•benches, upon which sat one or two gi'ave personages 
smoking paper cigars. Upon the hearth blazed a handful 
of fagots, whose bright flame danced merrily among a 
motley congregation of pots and kettles, and a long 
wreath of smoke wound lazily up through the huge tunnel 
of the roof above. The walls were black with soot, and 
ornamented with sundry legs of bacon and festoons of 
sausages ; and as there were no windows in this dingy 
abode, the only light which cheered the darkness within, 
came flickering from the fire upon the hearth, and the 
«moky sunbeams that peeped down the long-necked 
chimney. 

I had not been long seated by the fire, when the tink- 
ling of mule-bells, the clatter of hoofs, and the hoarse 



120 THE JO UBNEY INTO SPAIN. 

voice of a muleteer, in the outer apartment, announced 
the arrival of new guests. A few moments afterward 
the kitchen-door opened, and a person entered, whose 
appearance strongly arrested my attention. It was a tall, 
athletic figure with the majestic carriage of a grandee, 
and a dark, sunburnt countenance, that indicated an age 
of about fifty years. His dress was singular, and such as 
I had not before seen. He wore a round hat with wide, 
flapping brim, from beneath which his long-, black hair 
hung in curls upon his shoulders ; a leather jerkin, with 
cloth sleeves descended to his hips ; around his waist was 
closely buckled a leather belt, with a cartouch-box on one 
side ; a pair of Marmeluke pantaloons of black serge hung 
in ample folds to the knees, around which they were 
closely gathered by embroidered garters of blue silk ; and 
black broadcloth leggins, buttoned close to the calves, and 
strapped over a pair of brown leather shoes, completed 
the singular dress of the stranger. He doffed his hat as 
he entered, and saluting the company with a ^^ Dios 
guarde a Ustedes, caballeros" (God guard you. Gentle- 
men), took a seat by the fire, and entered into conversa- 
tion with those around him. 

As my curiosity was not a little excited by the peculiar 
dress of this person, I inquired of a travelling companion, 
who sat at my elbow, who and what this new-comer was. 
From him I learned that he was a muleteer of the Mara- 
gateria, — a name given to a cluster of small towns which 
lie in the mountainous country between Astorga and 
Villafranca, in the western corner of the kingdom of 
Leon. 

"Nearly every province in Spain," said he, "has its 
peculiar costume, as you will see, when you have advanced 
farther into our country. For instance, the Catalonians 



THE JO URNET INTO SPAIN. 121 

wear crimson caps, hanging down upon the shoulder like 
a sack ; wide pantaloons of green velvet, long enough in 
the waistband to cover the whole breast ; and a little strip 
of a jacket, made of the same material, and so short as to 
bring the pocket directly under the armpit. The Valen- 
cians, on the contrary, go almost naked : a linen shirt, 
white linen trousers, reaching no lower than the knees, 
and a pair of coarse leather sandals complete their simple 
garb ; it is only in mid- winter that they indulge in the 
luxury of a jacket. The most beautiful and expensive 
costume, however, is that of Andalusia ; it consists of a 
velvet jacket, faced with rich and various-colored em- 
broidery, and covered with tassels and silken cord ; a 
waistcoat of some gay color ; a silken handkerchief round 
the neck, and a crimson sash round the waist ; breeches 
that button down each side ; gaiters and shoes of white 
leather ; and a handkerchief of bright-colored silk wound 
about the head like a turban, and surmounted by a velvet 
cap or a little round hat, with a wide band, and an abun- 
dance of silken loops and tassels. The Old Castilians are 
more grave in their attire : they wear a leather breastplate 
instead of a jacket, breeches and leggins, and a montera 
cap. This fellow is a Maragato ; and in the villages of 
the Maragateria the costume varies a little from the rest 
of Leon and Castile." 

"If he is indeed a Maragato," said I, jestingly, "who 
knows but he may be a descendant of the muleteer who 
behaved so naughtily at Cacabelos, as related in the sec- 
ond chapter of the veracious history of Gil Bias de Santil- 
lana?" 

'' ^Quien sabef was the reply. "Notwithstanding 
the pride which even the meanest Castilian feels in 
counting over a long line of good-for-nothing ancestors. 



122 THE JO UBNEY INTO SPAIN. 

the science of genealogy has become of late a very intri- 
cate study in Spain.'* 

Here our conversation was cut short by the Mayoral of 
the diligence, who came to tell us that the mules were 
waiting ; and before many hours had elapsed, we were 
scrambling through the square of the ancient city of 
Burgos. On the morrow we crossed the river Duero and 
the Guadarrama Mountains, and early in the afternoon 
entered the " Heroica Villa," of Madrid, by the Puerta de 
Fuencarral. 



s p A I :n". 

Santiago y cierra Espa5a ! 

Spanish War-ckt. 

IT is a beautiful morning in June ; — so beautiful, that 
I almost fancy myself in Spain. The tesselated 
shadow of the honey-suckle lies motionless upon my floor, 
as if it were a figure in the carpet ; and through the open 
window comes the fragrance of the wild -brier and the 
mock-orange, reminding me of that soft, sunny clime 
where the very air is laden, like the bee, with sweetness, 
and the south wind 

" Comes over gardens, and the flowers 
That kissed it are betrayed." 

The birds are carolling in the trees, and their shadows 
flit across the window as they dart to and fro in the sun- 
shine ; while the murmur of the bee, the cooing of doves 
from the eaves, and the whirring of a little humming- 
bird that has its nest in the honeysuckle, send up a sound 
of joy to meet the rising sun. How like the climate of 
the South ! How like a summer morning in Spain ! 

My recollections of Spain are of the most lively and 
delightful kind. The character of the soil and of its in- 
habitants, — the stormy mountains and free spirits of the 
North, — ^the prodigal luxuriance and gay voluptuousness 
of the South, — tJie history and traditions of the past, re- 
sembling more the fables of romance than the solemn 
chronicle of events, — a soft and yet majestic language 
12?. 



124 SPAIN. 

that falls like martial music on the ear, and a literature 
rich in the attractive lore of poetry and fiction, — these, 
but not these alone, are my reminiscences of Spain. With 
these I recall the thousand little circumstances and enjoy- 
ments which always give a coloring to our recollections 
of the past ; the clear sky, — the pure, balmy air, — the 
delicious fruits and flowers, — the wild- fig and the aloe, 
the palm tree and the olive by the wayside, — all, all that 
makes existence so joyous, and renders the sons and daugh- 
ters of that clime the children of impulse and sensation. 

As I write these words, a shade of sadness steals over 
me. When I think what that glorious land might be, 
and what it is, — what nature intended it should be, and 
what man has made it, — my very heart sinks within me. 
My mind instinctively reverts from the degradation of the 
present to the glory of the past ; or, looking forward with 
strong misgivings, but with yet stronger hopes, interro- 
gates the future. 

The burnished armor of the Cid stands in the archives 
of the royal museum of Madrid, and there, too, is seen 
the armor of Ferdinand and of Isabel, of Guzman the 
Good and of Gonzalo de Cordova, and other early 
champions of Spain ; but what hand shall now wield the 
sword of the Oampeador, or lift up the banner of Leon 
and Castile ? Tlie ruins of Christian castle and Moorish 
alcazar still look forth from the hills of Spain ; but 
where, where is the spirit of freedom that once fired 
the children of the Goth ? Where is the si3irit of Ber- 
nardo del Carpio, and Perez de Vargas, and Alonzo de 
Aguilar ? Shall it forever sleep ? Shall it never again 
beat high in the hearts of their degenerate sons ? Shall 
the descendants of Pelayo bow forever beneath an iron 
yoke, **like cattle whose despair is dumb ?" 



SPAm. 125 

The dust of the Cid lies mingling with the dust of Old 
Castile ; but his spirit is not buried with his ashes. It 
sleeps, but is not dead. The day will come, .when the 
foot of the tjrrant shall be shaken from the neck of Spain ; 
when a brave and generous people, though now ignorant, 
degraded, and much abused, shall "know their rights, 
and knowing dare maintain." But I am no political 
seer. I will dwell no longer on this theme. 

Of the national character of Spain I have brought 
away this impression ; that its prominent traits are a gen- 
erous pride of bii-th, a superstitious devotion to the dog- 
mas of the Church, and an innate dignity, which exhibits 
itself even in the common and e very-day employments cf 
life. Castilian pride is proverbial. A beggar wraps his 
tattered cloak around him with all the dignity of a Eoman 
senator ; and a muleteer bestrides his beast of burden with 
the air of a grandee. 

I have thought, too, that there was a tinge of sadness 
in the Spanish character. The national music of the land 
is remarkable for its melancholy tone ; and at times the 
voice of a peasant, singing amid the silence and solitude 
of the mountains, falls upon the ear like a funeral chant. 
Even a Spanish holiday wears a look of sadness, — a cir- 
cumstance which some writers attribute to the cruel and 
overbearing spirit of the municipal laws. " On the 
greatest festivals," says Sovellanos, "instead of that 
boisterous merriment and noise which should bespeak 
the joy of the inhabitants, there reigns throughout the 
streets and market-places a slothful inactivity, a gloomy 
stillness, which cannot be remarked without mingled 
emotions of surprise and pity. The few persons who 
leave their houses seem to be driven from them by list- 
lessness, and dragged as far as the tlireshold, the market. 



126 SPAIN. 

or the cliurch-door ; there, muffled in their cloaks, lean- 
ing against a corner, seated on a bench, or lounging to 
and fro, without object, aim, or purpose, they pass their 
hours, their whole evenings, without mirth, recreation, 
or amusement. When you add to this picture the drear- 
iness and filth of the villages, the poor and slovenly dress 
of the inhabitants, the gloominess and silence of their air, 
the laziness, the want of concert and union so striking 
everywhere, who but would be astonished, who but would 
be afflicted by so mournful a phenomenon ? This is not, 
indeed, the place to expose the errors which conspire to 
produce it ; but, whatever those errors may be, one point 
is clear, — that they are all to be found in the laws ! " * 

Of the same serious, sombre character is the favorite 
national sport,— the bull-fight. It is a barbarous amuse- 
ment, but of all others the most exciting, the most spirit- 
stirring ; and in Spain, none so popular. ^^ If Eome lived 
content with bread and arms," says the author I have 
just quoted, in a spirited little discourse entitled Pa7i y 
Tor OS, '' Madrid lives content with bread and bulls." 

Shall I describe a Spanish bull-fight ? No. It has 
been so often and so well described by other pens that 
mine shall not undertake it, though it is a tempting 
theme. I cannot, however, refuse myself the pleasure of 
quoting here a few lines from one of the old Spanish bal- 
lads upon this subject. It is entitled '*The Bull-fight of 
Ganzul." The description of the bull, which is con- 
tained in the passage I here extract, is drawn with a 
master's hand. It is a paraphrase — not a translation — 
by Mr Lockhart. 

* Informe dado a la Real Academia de Historia sobre Juegos, 

Espectaculos, y Diversiones Pubhcas. 



SPAm. 127 

** From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, 
From Guadalarif of the plain, nor Barves of the hill ; 
But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear, * 

Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud and stately 
steer. 

" Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil, 
And the dun hide p^lows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil. 
His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow ; 
But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe. 

** Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near, 
From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they appear ; 
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old, knotted tree, 
Whereon the monster's shaggy mane, like billows curled, ye see. 

*' His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as 
night ; 
Like a strong flail he holds his tail, in fierceness of his might ; 
Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock. 
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayde's shock. 

** Now stops the drum, — close, close they come ; thrice meet and 

thrice give back ; 
The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black ; 
The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dun ; — 
Once more advance upon his lance, — once more, thou fearless 

one ! " 

There are various circnmstaiices closely connected with 
the train of thought I have here touched upon ; but I 
forbear to mention them, for fear of drawing out this in- 
troductory chapter to too great a length. Some of them 
will naturally find a place hereafter. Meanwhile let us 
turn the leaf to a new chapter, and to subjects of a live- 
lier nature. 



A TAILOR'S DEAWER. 

Nedyls, threde, thyrabell, shers. 
And all suche knackes. 

The Fouit Pa. 



I. 



A TAILOR'S drawer, quotha ? 
Yes ; a tailor's drawer. Sooth to say it is rather 
a quaint rubric for a chapter in the pilgrim's breviary ; 
albeit it well befits the motley character of the following 
pages. It is a title which the Spaniards give to a des- 
ultory discourse, wherein various and discordant themes 
are touched upon, and which is crammed full of little 
shreds and patches of erudition ; and certainly it is not 
inappropriate to a chapter whose contents are of every 
shape and hue, and *^do no more adhere and keep pace 
together than the hundredth psalm to the tune of Green 
Sleeves." 

II. 

It is recorded in the adventures of Gil Bias de Santil- 
lana, that, when this renowned personage first visited the 
city of Madrid, he took lodgings at the house of Mateo 
Melandez, in the Puerta del Sol. In choosing a place of 
abode in the Spanish court, I followed, as far as practica- 
ble, this illustrious example ; but, as the kind-hearted 
Mateo had been long gathered to his fathers, I was con- 
tent to take up my residence in the hired house of Val- 
entin Gonzalez, at the foot of the Calle de la Montera, 
128 



A TAILOR' 8 DBAWEB. 129 

My apartments were in the third story, above the dust, 
though not beyond the rattle, of the street ; and my bal- 
conies looked down into the Puerta del Sol, the heart of 
Madrid, through which circulates the living current of 
its population at least once every twenty-four hours. 

The Puerta del Sol is a public square, from which di- 
verge the five principal streets of the metropolis. It is 
the great rendezvous of grave and gay, — of priest and lay- 
man, — of gentle and simple, — the mart of business and 
of gossip, — the place where the creditor seeks his debtor, 
where the lawyer seeks his client, where the stranger 
seeks amusement, where the friend seeks his friend, and 
the foe his foe ; where the idler seeks the sun in winter, 
and the shade in summer, and the busybody seeks the 
daily news, and jjicks up the crumbs of gossip to fly away 
with them in his beak to the terhilia of Doiia Paquita ! 

Tell me, ye who have sojourned in foreign .lands, and 
know in what bubbles a traveller's happiness consists, — is 
it not a blessing to have your window overlook a scene 
like this ? 



III. 



Theke, — take that chair upon the balcony, and let us 
look down upon the busy scene beneath us. What a con- 
tinued roar the crowded thoroughfare sends up ! Though 
three stories high, we can hardly hear the sound of our 
own voices ! The London cries are whispers, when com- 
pared with the cries of Madrid. 

See, — yonder stalks a gigantic peasant of New Cas- 
tile, with a montera cap, brown jacket and breeches, and 
coarse blue stockings, forcing his way through the crowd, 
and leading a donkey laden with charcoal, whose sono- 



130 A TAILOR'S DRAWEE. 

rous bray is in unison with the harsh voice of his master. 
Close at his elbow goes a rosy-cheeked damsel, selling cal- 
ico. She is an Asturian from the mountains of Santan- 
der. How do you know ? By her short yellow petticoats, 
— her blue bodice, — her coral necklace and ear-rings. 
Through the middle of the square struts a peasant of Old 
Castile, with his yellow leather jerkin strapped about his 
waist, — his brown leggins and his blue garters, — driving 
before him a flock of gabbling turkeys, and crying, at the 
top of his voice, '^Pao, pao, pavitos, paos! " Next comes 
a Valencian, with his loose linen trousers and sandal 
shoon, holding a huge sack of watermelons upon his 
shoulder with his left hand, and with his right balancing 
high in air a specimen of the luscious frait, upon which is 
perched a little pyramid of the crimson pulp, while he 
tempts the passers-by with '^ A cala, y calando ; una 
sandla vendo-o-o. Si esto essangre!" (By the slice, — 
come and try it, — watermelon for sale. This is the real 
blood !) His companion near him has a pair of scales 
thrown over his shoulder, and holds both arms full of 
muskmelons. He chimes into the harmonious ditty with 
*' Melo — melo-o-o — meloncitos ; aqul estd el azucar ! " 
(Melons, melons ; here is the sugar !) Behind them 
creeps a slow-moving Asturian, in heavy wooden shoes,' 
crying watercresses ; and a peasant woman from the 
Guadarama Mountains, with a montera cocked up in 
front, and a blue kerchief tied under her chin, swings in 
each hand a bunch of live cliickens, — that hang by the 
claws, head downwards, fluttering, scratching, crov/- 
ing with all their might, vv^liile the good woman tries to 
drown their voices in the discordant cry of ^' ^Quien me 
compra un gallo, — %in ^mr de galUna^V^ (Who buys a 
cock,— a brace of hens, — who buys ?) Tliat tall fellow 



A TAILOR'S DBA WEE. 131 

in blue, with a pot of flowers upon his shoulder, is a wag, 
beyond all dispute. See how cunningly he cocks his eye 
up at us, and cries, " Si yo tuviera halcon ! " (If I only 
had a balcony ! " 

What next ? A Manchego with a sack of oil under his 
arm ; a Gallego with a huge water-jar upon his shoulders ; 
an Italian pedler with images of saints and madonnas : a 
razor-grinder with his wheel ; a mender of pots and ket- 
tles, making music, as he goes, with a shovel and a fry- 
ing-pan ; and, in fine, a noisy, patchwork, eyer-changing 
crowd, whose discordant cries mingle with the rumbling 
of wheels, the clatter of hoofs, and the clang of church- 
bells ; and make the Puerta del Sol, at certain hours of 
the day, like a street in Babylon the Great. 

IV. 

Chiton I A beautiful girl, with flaxen hair, blue eyes, 
and the form of a fairy in a midsummer night's dream, has 
just stepped out on the balcony beneath us ! See howco- 
quettishly she crosses her arms upon the balcony, thrusts 
her dainty little foot through the bars, and plays with her 
slipper ! She is an Andalusian, from Malaga. Her 
brother is a bold dragoon, and wears a long sword ; so be- 
ware ! and " let not the creaking of shoes and the rustling 
of silks betray thy poor heart to woman." Her mother 
is a dowdy lady, ''^fat and forty" ; eats garlic in hei 
salad, and smokes cigars. But mind ! tliat is a secret ; I 
tell it to you in confidence. 

V. 

The following little ditty I translate from the Spanish, 
It is as delicate as a dew-drop. 



132 A TAILOWS DRAWER. 

She is a maid of artless grace. 
Gentle in form, and fair of face. 

Tell me, thou ancient mariner. 

That sailest on the sea, 
If ship, or sail, or evening star 

Be half so fair as she ! 

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier. 

Whose shining arms I see. 
If steed, or sword, or battle-field 

Be half so fair as she ! 

Tell me, thou swain, that guard'st thy flock 

Beneath the shadowy tree, 
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge 

Be half so fair as she I 

VI. 

A MILLER has just passed by, coyered with flour from head 
to foot, and perched upon the tip end of a little donkey, 
crying " Arre horrico!" and at eyery cry swinging a 
cudgel in his hand, and giying the ribs of the poor beast 
Yv^hat in the yulgar dialect is called a cachijjorrazo. I could 
not help laughing, though I felt proyoked with the fellow 
for his cruelty. The truth is, I haye great esteem for a 
Jackass. His meekness, and patience, and long-suffering 
are yery amiable qualities, and, considering his situation, 
worthy of all praise. In Spain, a donkey plays as con- 
Bpicuous a part as a priest or yillage alcalde. There 
would be no getting along without him. And yet, who so 
beaten and abused as he ? 

VII. 

Here comes a gay gallant, with white kid gloves, a 



A lAI LOR' 8 DRAWER. 133 

qnizzing-glass, a black cane, with a white ivory apple, 
and a little hat, cocked pertly on one side of his head. 
He is an exquisite fop, and a great lady's man. You will 
always find him on the Prado at sunset, when the crowd 
and dust are thickest, ogling through his glass, flourish- 
ing his cane, and humming between his teeth some 
favorite air of the Semiramis, or the Barber of Seville. 
He is a great amateur, and patron of the Italian Opera, 
— beats time with his cane, — nods his head, and cries 
Bravo! — and fancies himself in love with the Prima 
Donna. The height of his ambition is to be thought the 
gay Lothario, — the gallant Don Cortejo of his little 
sphere. He is a poet withal, and daily besieges the 
heart of the cruel Dona Inez with sonnets and madrigals. 
She turns a deaf ear, to his song, and is inexorable : — 

** Mas que no sea mas piadosa 
A dos escudos en prosa, 
No puede ser, " 

VIII. 

What a contrast between this personage and the sal- 
low, emaciated being who is now crossing the street ! It 
is a barefooted Carmelite, — a monk of an austere order, 
— wasted by midnight vigils and long penance. Absti- 
nence is written on that pale cheek, and the bowed head 
and downcast eye are in accordance with the meek pro- 
fession of a mendicant brotherhood. 

What is this world to thee, thou man of penitence and 
prayer ? What has thou to do with all this busy, turbu- 
lent scene about thee, — ^with all the noise, and gayety, 
and splendor of this thronged city? Nothing. The 
wide world gives thee nothing, save thy daily crust, 



134 A TAILOR'S DBA WER. 

thy crucifix, thy conyent-cell, thy pallet of straw ! Pil- 
grim of heaven ! thou hast no home on earth. Thou art 
journeying onward to " a house not made with hands " ; 
and like the first apostles of thy faith, thou takest neither 
gold, nor silver, nor brass, nor scrip for thy journey. 
Thou hast shut thy heart to the endearments of earthly 
love, — thy shoulder beareth not the burden with thy 
fellow-man, — in all this vast crowd thou hast no friends, no 
hopes, no sympathies. Thou standest aloof from man, — 
and art thou nearer God ? I know not. Thy motives, 
thy intentions, thy desires are registered in heaven. I 
am thy fellow-man, — and not thy judge. 

'^ Who is the greater ? " says the German moralist ; 
"the wise man v/ho lifts himself above the storms of 
time, and from aloof looks down upon them, and yet 
takes no part therein, — or he who, from the height of 
quiet and repose, throws himself boldly into the battle- 
tumult of the world ? Glorious is it, when the eagle 
through the beating tempest flies into the bright blue 
heaven upward ; but far more glorious, when, poising in 
the blue sky over the black storm-abyss, he plunges down- 
ward to his aerie on the cliff, where cower his unfledged 
brood, and tremble." 

IX. 

Sultry grows the day, and breathless ! The lately 
crowded street is silent and deserted, — hardly a footfall, 
— hardly here and there a solitary figure stealing along in 
the narrow strip of shade beneath the eaves ! Silent, too, 
and deserted is the Puerta del Sol ; so silent, that even at 
this distance the splashing of its fountain is distinctly 
audible, — so deserted, that not a living thing is visible 



A TAILOR'S DIUiWER. 135 

there, save the outstretched and athletic form of a GalL 
cian water-carrier, who lies asleep upon the payement iii 
the cool shadow of the fountain ! There is not air enough 
to stir the leaves of the jasmine upon the halcony, or break 
the thin column of smoke that issues from the cigar of 
Don Diego, master of the noble Spanish tongue, y liomhre 
cle muclios dingolondangos. He sits bolt upright between 
the window and the door, with the collar of his snuff- 
colored frock thrown back uj^on his shoulders, and his 
toes turned out like a dancing-master, poring over the 
Diario de Madrid, to learn how high the thermometer 
rose yesterday, — what j^atron saint has a festival to-day, — 
and at what hour to-morrow the " King of SjDain, Jerusa- 
lem, and the Canary Islands " will take his departure for 
the gardens of Ai'anjuez. 

You have a proverb in your language, Don Diego, which 
says,— 

"Despues cle comer 
Ni un sobrescrito leer " ; — 

after dinner read not even the superscription of a letter. 
I shall obey, and indulge in the exquisite luxury of a 
siesta. I confess that I love this after-dinner nap. If I 
have a gift, a vocation for anything, it is for sleeping. A 
child might envy me, I sleep so calmly ; and from my 
heart I can say with honest Sancho, *' Blessed be the man 
that first invented sleep ! " In a sultry clime, too, where 
the noontide heat unmans you, and cool starry night seems 
made for anything but slumber, I am willing to barter an 
hour or two of intense daylight for an hour or two of tran- 
quil, lovely, dewy night ! 

Therefore, Don Diego, hasta la vista ! 



136 A TAILOR'S DBA WEB, 

X. 

It is evening ; tlie day is gone ; fast gather and deepen 
the shades of twilight ! In the words of a German alle- 
gory, " The babbling day has touched the hem of night's 
garment, and, weary and still, di'ops asleep in her bosom. " 

The city awakens from its slumber. The convent-bells 
ring solemnly and slow. The streets are thronged again. 
Once more I hear the shrill cry, the rattling wheel, the 
murmur of the crowd. The blast of a trumpet sounds 
from the Puerta del Sol, — then the tap of a drum ; a 
mounted guard opens the way, — the crowd dolf their hafcs, 
and the king sweeps by in a gilded coach drawn by six 
horses, and followed by a long train of uncouth, anti- 
quated vehicles drawn by mules. 

The living tide now sets towards the Prado, and the 
beautiful gardens of the Eetiro. Beautiful are they at 
this magic hour. Beautiful, with the almond-tree in blos- 
som, with the broad green leaves of the sycamore and the 
chestnut, with the fragrance of the orange and the lemon, 
with the beauty of a thousand flowers, with the soothing 
calm and the dewy freshness of evening ! 

XI. 

I LOYE to linger on the Prado till the crowd is gone 
and the night far advanced. There musing and alone I 
sit, and listen to the lulling fall of waters in their marble 
fountains, and watch the moon a-s it rises over the gardens 
of the Retiro, brighter than a northern sun. The beauti- 
ful scene lies half in shadow, half in light, — almost a fairy- 
land. Occasionally the sound of a guitar, or a distant 
voice, breaks in upon my re very. Then the form of a 
monk, from the neighboring convent, sweeps by me like 



A TAILOR'S DRAWER. 137 

a shadow, and disappears in the gloom of the leafy ayenues ; 
and far away from the streets of the city comes the Yoice 
of the watchman telling the midnight hour. 

Lovely art thou, Night, beneath the skies of Spain 
Day, panting with heat, and laden with a thousand cares, 
toils onward like a beast of burden ; but Night, calm., si- 
lent, holy Night, is a ministering angel that cools with 
its dewy breath the toil-heated brow ; and, like the Eo- 
man sisterhood, stoops down to bathe the pilgrim's feet. 
How grateful is the starry twilight ! How grateful the 
gentle radiance of the moon ! How grateful the delicious 
coolness of *' the omnipresent and deep-breathing air ! '*' 
Loyely art thou, Night, beneath the skies of Spain ! 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a 
very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably. 

Winter's Talb. 

HOW uniyersal is the love of poetry ! Every nation 
lias its popular songs, tlie offspring of a credulous 
simplicity and an unschooled fancy. The peasant of the 
North, as he sits by the evening fire, sings the tradition- 
ary ballad to his childi'en, 

" Nor wants he gleeful tales, while round 
The nut-brown bowl doth trot." 

The peasant of the South, as he lies at noon in the shade 
of the sycamore, or sits by his door in the evening twi- 
light, sings his amorous lay, and listlessly, 

•* On hollow quills of oaten straw, 
He pipeth melody." 

The muleteer of Spain carols with the early lark, amid 
the stormy mountains of his native land. The vintager 
of Sicily has his evening hymn ; the fisherman of Naples 
his boat-song ; the gondolier of Venice his midnight ser- 
enade. The goatherd of Switzerland and the Tyrol, — 
the Carpathian boor, — the Scotch Highlander, — the Eng- 
lish ploughboy, singing as he drives his team afield, — 
peasant, — serf, — slave, — all, all have their ballads and 
traditionary songs. Music is the universal language of 
mankind, — ^poetry their universal pastime and delight. 
138 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 139 

The ancient ballads of Spain liold a prominent rank in 
her literary history. Their number is truly astonishing, 
and may well startle the most enthusiastic loyer of popu- 
lar song. The Romancero General * contains upwards of 
a thousand ; and though upon many of these may justly 
be bestowed the encomium which honest Izaak Walton 
pronounces upon the old English ballad of the Passionate 
Shepherd — " old-fashioned j)oetry, but choicely good," — 
yet, as a whole, they are, perhaps, more remarkable for 
their number than for their beauty. Every great historic 
event, every marvellous tradition, has its popular ballad. 
Don Roderick, Bernardo del Carpio, and the Cid Campe- 
ador are not more the heroes of ancient chronicle than of 
ancient song ; and the imaginary chamj)ions of Christen- 
dom, the twelve peers of Charlemagne, have found an 
historian in the wandering ballad-singer no less authentic 
than the good Archbishoj) Turpi n. 

Most of these ancient ballads had their origin during 
the dominion of the Moors in Spain. Many of them, 
doubtless, are nearly as old as the events they celebrate ; 
though in their present form the greater part belong to 
the fourteenth century. The language in which they 
are now preserved indicates no higher antiquity ; but 
who shall say how long they have been handed down by 
tradition, ere they were taken from the lips of the wan- 
dering minstrel, and recorded in a more permanent form ? 

The seven centuries of the Moorish sovereignty in Spain 
are the heroic ages of her history and her poetry. What 
the warrior achieved with his sword the minstrel pub- 
lished in his song. The character of those ages is seen in 



* Romancero General, en que se contiene todos los Romances ^u« 
andan impresos. 4to. Madrid, 1604. 



140 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

the character of their literature. History casts its shadow 
far into the land of song. Indeed, the most prominent 
characteristic of the ancient Spanish ballads is their war- 
like spirit. They shadow forth the majestic lineaments 
of the warlike ages ; and through every line breathes a 
high and peculiar tone of chivalrous feeling. It is not 
the piping sound of peace, but a blast, — a loud, long 
blast from the war-horn, — 

*' A trump with a stern breath, 
Which is cleped the trump of death." 

And with this mingles the voice of lamentation, — ^the 
jequiem for the slain, with a melancholy sweetness : — 

** Rio Verde, Rio Verde ! 

Many a corpse is bathed in thee, 

Both of Moors and eke of Christians, 

Slain with swords most cruelly. 

** And thy pure and crystal waters 
Dappled are with crimson gore ; 
For between the Moors and Christians 
Long has been the fight and sore. 

"Dukes and counts fell bleeding near thee, 
Lords of high renown were slain, 
Perished many a brave hidalgo 
Of the noblemen of Spain." 

Another prominent characteristic of these ancient bal- 
lads is their energetic and beautiful simplicity. A great 
historic event is described in the fewest possible words ; 
there is no ornament, no artifice. The poet's intention 
was to narrate, not to embellish. It is truly wonderful 
to observe what force, and beauty, and dramatic power 
are given to the old romances by this single circumstance. 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS 141 

When Bernardo del Carpio leads forth his valiant Leonese 
against the host of Charlemagne, he animates their cour- 
age by alluding to their battles with the Moors, and ex- 
claims, " Shall the lions that have bathed their paAvs inl^ 
Libyan gore now crouch before the Frank ? " When he (' 
enters the palace of the treacherous Alfonso, to upbraid 
him for a broken promise, and the king orders him to be 
arrested for contumely, he lays his hand upon his sword 
and cries, ^^Let no one stir ! I am Bernardo; and my 
sword is not subject even to kings !" When the Count 
Alarcos prepares to put to death his own wife at the 
king's command, she submits patiently to her fate, asks 
time to say a prayer, and then exclaims, " Now bring me 
my infant boy, that I may give him suck, as my last fare- 
well ! " Is there in all the writings of Homer an incident 
more touching, or more true to nature ? 

The ancient Spanish ballads naturally divide them- 
selves into three classes : — the Historic, the Eomantic, 
and the Moorish. It must be confessed, however, that 
the line of demarcation between these three classes is not 
well defined ; for many of the Moorish ballads are his- 
toric, and many others occupy a kind of debatable ground 
between the historic and the romantic. I have adopted 
this classification for the sake of its convenience, and shall 
now make a few hasty obseiwations upon each class, and 
illustrate my remarks by specimens of the ballads. 

The historic ballads are those v/hich recount the noble 
deeds of the early heroes of Spain : of Bernardo del Car- 
pio, the Cid, Martin Pelaez, Garcia Perez de Vargas, 
Alonso de Aguilar, and many others whose names stand 
conspicuous in Spanish history. Indeed, these ballads 
may themselves be regarded in the light of historic docu- 
ments ; they are portraits of long-departed ages, and if at 



142 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

times tlieir features are exaggerated and colored with too 
bold a contrast of light and shade, yet the free and spirited 
touches of a master's hand are recognized in all. They 
are instinct, too, with the spirit of Castilian pride, with 
the high and dauntless spirit of liberty that burned so 
bright of old in the heart of the brave hidalgo. Take, 
for example, the ballad of the Five Farthings. King Al- 
fonso VIII. , having exhausted his treasury in war, wishes 
to lay a tax of five farthings upon each of the Castilian 
hidalgos, in order to defray the expenses of a journey 
from Burgos to Cuenca. This proposition of the king 
was met with disdain by the noblemen who had been as- 
sembled on the occasion. 

" Don Nuno, Count of Lara, 
In anger and in pride, 
Forgot all reverence for the king, 
And thus in wrath replied : — 

** * Our noble ancestors, ' quoth he, 
* Ne'er such a tribute paid ; 
Nor shall the king receive of us 
What they have once gainsaid, 

" * The base-born soul who deems it just 
May here with thee remain ; 
But follow me, ye cavaliers. 
Ye noblemen of Spain/ 

** Forth followed they the noble Count, 
They marched to Glera's plain ; 
Out of three thousand gallant knights 
Did only three remain. 

" They tied the tribute to their spears. 
They raised it in the air. 
And they sent to tell their lord the king 
That his tax was ready there. 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 143 

** * He may send and take by force,' said they, 
* This paltry sum of gold ; 
But the goodly gift of liberty 
Cannot be bought and sold.' " 



The same gallant spirit breathes through all the historic 
ballads ; but, perhaps, most fervently in those which re- 
late to Bernardo del Carpio. How spirit-stirring are all 
the speeches which the ballad-writers have put into the 
mouth of this valiant hero ! '' Ours is the blood of the 
Goth," says he to King Alfonso ; *^ sweet to us is liberty, 
and bondage odious ! " — *' The king may give his castles 
to the Frank, but not his vassals ; for kings themselves 
hold no dominion over the free will ! " He and his fol- 
lowers would rather die freemen than live slaves ! If these 
are the common watchwords of liberty at the present day, 
they were no less so among the high-souled Spaniards of 
the eighth century. 

One of the finest of the historic ballads is that which 
describes Bernardo's march to Koncesvalles. He sallies 
forth " with three thousand Leonese and more," to pro- 
tect the glory and freedom of his native land. From all 
sides, the peasantry of the land flocked to the hero'a 
standard. 

*' The peasant leaves his plough afield. 
The reaper leaves his hook, 
And from his hand the shepherd-boy 
Lets fall the pastoral crook. 



** The young set up a shout of joy, 
The old forget their years, 
The feeble man grows stout of heart. 
No more the craven fears. 



144 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS, 

** All rush to Bernard's standard, 
And on liberty they call ; 
They cannot brook to wear the yoke. 
When threatened by the Gaul. 

** * Free were we born,' 'tis thus they cry, 
* And ^illingly pay we 
The duty that we owe our king, 
By the divine decree. 

'* * But God forbid that we obey 
The laws of foreign knaves, 
Tarnish the glory of our sires. 
And make our children sJaves. 

** ' Our hearts have not so craven grown. 
So bloodless all our veins, 
So vigorless our brawny arms. 
As to submit to chains. 

** ' Hath the audacious Frank, forsooth. 
Subdued these seas and lands ? 
Shall he a bloodless victory have ? 
No, not while we have hands. 

•* * He shall learn that the gallant Leonesa 
Can bravely fight and fall ; 
But that they know not how to yield; 
They are Castilians all. 



« 



* Was it for this the Roman power 
Of old was made to yield 

Unto Numantia's valiant hosts, 
On many a bloody field ? 



** * Shall the bold lions that have bathed 
Their paws in Libyan gore, 
Crouch Jjasely to a feebler foe, 
And dare the strife no more ? 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 145 

*' * Let the false king sell town and tower, 
But not his vassals free ; 
For to subdue the free-born soul 
No royal power hath he I ' " 

These short specimens will suffice to show the spirit of 
the old heroic ballads of Spain ; the Eomances del Cid, 
and those that rehearse the gallant achievements of many 
other champions, braye and stalwart knights of old, I 
must leave unnoticed, and pass to another field of chivalry 
and song. 

The next class of the ancient Spanish ballads is the 
Romantic, including those which relate to the Twelve 
Peers of Charlemagne and other imaginary heroes of the 
days of chivalry. There is an exaggeration in the prowess 
of these heroes of romance which is in accordance with 
the warmth of a Spanish imagination ; and the ballads 
which celebrate their achievements still go from mouth 
to mouth among the peasantry of Spain, and are hawked 
about the streets by the blind ballad-monger. 

Among the romantic ballads, those of the Twelve Peers 
stand pre-eminent ; not so much for their poetic merit as 
for the fame of their heroes. In them are sung the val- 
iant knights whose history is written more at large in the 
prose romances of chivalry, — Orlando, and Oliver, and 
Montesinos, and Durandarte, and the Marquis of Mantua, 
and the other paladins, ''que en una mesa comian pan.''^ 
These ballads are of different length and various degrees 
of merit. Of some a few lines only remain ; they are 
evidently fragments of larger works ; while others, on the 
contrary, aspire to the length and dignity of epic poems ; 
■ — witness the ballads of the Conde de Irlos and the Mar- 
quis of Mantua, each of which consists of nearly a thou- 
sand long and sonorous lines. 
10 



146 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

Among these ballads of the Twelye Peers there are 
many of great beauty ; others possess little merit, and are 
wanting in yigor and conciseness. From the structure of 
the yersification, I should rank them among the oldest of 
the Spanish ballads. They are all monorhythmic, with 
full consonant rhymes. 

To the romantic ballads belong also a great number 
which recount the deeds of less celebrated heroes ; but 
among them all none is so curious as that of Vergilios. 
Like the old French romance-writers of the Middle Ages, 
the early Spanish poets introduce the Mantuan bard as a 
knight of chiyalry. The ballad informs us that a certain 
king kept him imprisoned seyen years, for what old Bran- 
tome would call outr ecu 1/ dance with a certain Dona Isa- 
bel. But being at mass on Sunday, the recollection of 
Yirgil comes suddenly into his mind, when he ought to 
be attending to the priest ; and, turning to his knights, 
he asks them what has become of Virgil. One of them 
replies, "Your Highness has him imprisoned in your 
dungeons " ; to which the king makes answer with the 
greatest coolness, by telling them that the dinner is wait- 
ing, and that after they haye dined they will pay Virgil 
a yisit in his prison. Then up and spake the queen like a 
true heroine ; qoutli she, " I will not dine without him" ; 
and straightway they all repair to the prison, where they 
find the incarcerated knight engaged in the pleasant 
pastime of combing his hair and arranging his beard. 
He tells the king yery coolly that on that very day he has 
been a prisoner seyen years ; to this the king replies, 
" Hush, hush, Virgil ; it takes three more to mal^e ten." 
— " Sire," says Virgil, with the same philosophical com- 
posure, "if your Highness so ordains, I will pass my 
whole life here." — " As a reward for your patience, you 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 147 

shall dine with me to-day/' says the king. "My coat is 
torn/' says Virgil ; " I am. not in trim to make a leg." — 
But this difficulty is remoYed by the promise of a new 
suit from the king ; and they go to dinner. Virgil de- 
lights both knights and damsels, but most of all DoSa 
Isabel. The archbishop is called in ; they are married 
forthwith, and the ballad closes like a scene in some old 
play : — " He takes her by the hand, and leads her to the 
garden." 

Such is this curious ballad. 

I now turn to one of the most beautiful of these an- 
cient Spanish poems ; — it is the Eomance del Conde 
Alarcos ; a ballad full of interest and of touching pathos. 
The story is briefly this. The Count Alarcos, after being 
secretly betrothed to the Infanta Solisa, forsakes her and 
weds another lady. Many years afterward, the princess, 
sitting alone, as she was wont, and bemoaning her forsaken 
lot, resolves to tell the cause of her secret sorrow to the 
king her father ; and, after confessing her clandestine love 
for Count Alarcos, demands the death of the Countess, to 
heal her wounded honor. Her story awakens the wrath 
of the king ; he acknowledges the justness of her de- 
mand, seeks an interview with the Count, and sets the 
case before him in so strong a light, that finally he wrings 
from him a promise to put his wife to death with his own 
hand. The Count returns homeward a grief-stricken 
man, weeping the sad destiny of his wife, and saying 
within himself, " How shall I look upon her smile of joy, 
when she comes forth to meet me ? " The Countess wel- 
comes his return with affectionate tenderness ; but he is 
heavy at heart and disconsolate. He sits down to supper 
with his children around him, but the food is untasted ; 
he hides his -face in his hands, and weeps. At length 



148 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

they retire to their chamber. In the language of Mr. 
Lockhart's* translation, — 

" They came together to the bower, where they were used to rest,— 
None with them but the little babe that was upon the breast ; 
The Count had barred the chamber-doors, — they ne'er were barred 

till then : 
'Unhappy lady,' he began, ' and I most lost of men ! ' 

** ' Now speak not so, my noble lord, my husband, and my life ! 
Unhappy never can she be that is Alarcos' wife I ' 
* Alas ! unhappy lady, 'tis but little that you know ; 
For in that very word you've said is gathered all your woe. 

" ' Long since I loved a lady, — long since I oaths did plight 
To be that lady's husband, to love her day and night ; 
Her father is our lord the king, — to him the thing is known ; 
And now, — that I the news should bring !— she claims me for her 
own. 

*' * Alas I my love, alas I my life, the right is on their side ; 
Ere 1 had seen your face, sweet wife, she was betrothed my bride ; 
But — 0, that I should speak the word !— since in her place you 

lie. 
It is the bidding of our lord that you this night must die.' 

*' ' Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and so leal ? 
0, kill me not, thou noble Count, when at thy foot I kneel I 
But send me to my father's house, where once I dwelt in glee ; 
There will I live a lone, chaste life, and rear my children three.* 



* Ancient Spanish Ballads, Historical and Romantic. By J. G. 
Lockhart. These are beautiful poems, but poor translations. They 
do not sufficiently preserve the austere simplicity of their originals, 
except, perhaps, in the single instance before us. Here the transla- 
tion is much more literal than in the rest of Mr. Lockhart's speci" 
mens. 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS 149 

*' ' It may not be, — mine oath is strong, — ere dawn of day you die.' 

* 0, well 'tis seen how all alone upon the earth am I ! — 
My father is an old, frail man ; my mother's in her grave 
And dead is stout Don Garci, — alas I my brother brave ! 

" * 'Twas at this coward king's command they slew my brother 
dear, 
And now I'm helpless in the land I — It is not death I fear, 
But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my children so ; — 
Now let me lay them to my heart, arid kiss them, ere I go.* 

*' * Kiss him that lies upon thy breast, — the rest thou mayst not 
see.' 
*I would fain say an Ave.' ' Then say it speedily.' 
She knelt her down upon her knee, — ' Lord behold my case ! 
Judge not my deeds, but look on me in pity and great grace ! ' 

** When she had made her orison, up from her knees she rose : — 
' Be kind, Alarcos, to our babes, and pray for my repose ; 
And now give me my boy once more, upon my breast to hold. 
That he may drink one farewell drink before my breast be cold.* 

** *Why would you waken the poor child ? you see he is asleep ; 
Prepare, dear wife, there is no time, the dawn begins to peep.' 

* Now, hear me, Count Alarcos ! I give thee pardon free : 

I pardon thee for the love's sake wherewith I've loved thee ; 

" *But they have not my pardon, — the king and his proud daugh- 
ter ; 
The curse of God be on them, for this unchristian slaughter. 
I charge them with my dying breath, ere thirty days be gone, 
To meet me in the realm of death, and at God's awful throne I ' " 

The Count then strangles her with a scarf, and the 
ballad concludes with the fulfilment of the dying lady's 
prayer, in the death of the king and the Infanta within 
twenty days of her own. 

Few, I think, will be disposed to question the beauty 
of this ancient ballad, though a refined and cultivated 



150 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS, 

taste may revolt from the seemingly unnatural incident 
upon which it is founded. It must be recollected that 
this is a scene taken from a barbarous age, when the life 
of even the most cherished and beloved was held of little 
value in comparison with a chivalrous but false and exag- 
gerated point of honor. It must be borne in mind, also, 
that, notwithstanding the boasted liberty of the Castilian 
hidalgos, and their frequent rebellions against the crown, 
a deep reverence for the divine right of kings, and a con- 
sequent disposition to obey the mandates of the throne, 
at almost any sacrifice, has always been one of the promi- 
nent traits of the Spanish character. When taken in 
connection with these circumstances, the story of this old 
ballad ceases be so grossly improbable as it seems at first 
sight ; and, indeed, becomes an illustration of national 
character. In all probability^, the story of the Conde 
Alarcos had some foundation in fact.* 

The third class of the ancient Spanish ballads is the 
Moorish. Here Vv^e enter a new world, more gorgeous and 
more dazzling than that of Gothic chronicle and tradi- 
tion. The stern spirits of Bernardo, the Cid, and the Mu- 
darra have passed away ; the mail-clad forms of Guarinos, 
Orlando, and Durandarte are not here ; the scene is 
changed ; it is the bridal of Andalla ; the bull-fight of 
Ganzul. The sunshine of Andalusia glances upon the 
marble halls of Granada, and green are the banks of the 
Xenil and the Darro. A band of Moorish knights, gayly 
arrayed in gambesons of crimson silk, with scarfs of blue 



* This exaggerated reverence for the person and prerogatives of 
the king has furnished the groundwork of two of the best dramas in 
the Spanish language ; La Estrella de Se villa, by Lope de Vega, 
and Del Hey dbajo Ninguno, by Francisco de Rojas. 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 151 

and jewelled tahalies, sweep like tlie wind through the 
square of Viyarambla. They ride to the Tournament of 
Keeds ; the Moorish maiden leans from the balcony ; 
bright eyes glisten from many a lattice ; and the yictori- 
ous knight receives the prize of valor from the hand of 
her whose beauty is like the star-lit night. These are the 
Xarifas, the Celindas, and Lindaraxas, — the Andallas, 
Ganzules, and Abenzaydes of Moorish song. 

Then comes the sound of the silver clarion, and the 
roll of the Moorish atabal, down from the snowy pass of 
the Sierra Nevada and across the gardens of the Vega. 
Alhama has fallen ! woe is me, Alhama ! The Christian 
is at the gates of Granada ; the banner of the cross floats 
from the towers of the Alhambra ! And these, too, are 
themes for the minstrel, — themes "sung alike by Moor and 
Spaniard. 

Among the Moorish ballads are included not only those 
which were originally composed in Arabic, but all that 
relate to the manners, customs, and history of the Moors 
in Spain. In most of them the influence of an Oriental 
taste is clearly visible ; their spirit is more refined and ef- 
feminate than that of the historic and romantic ballads, 
in which no trace of such an influence is perceptible. 
The spirit of the Cid is stern, unbending, steel-clad ; his 
hand grasps his sword Tizona; his heel wounds the flank 
of his steed Babieca ; — 

" La mano aprieta a Tizona, 
Y el talon fiere a Babieca." 

But the spirit of Arbolan the Moor, though resolute in 
camps, is effeminate in courts ; he is a diamond among 
scymitars, yet graceful in the dance ; — • 



1 52 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

*' Diamante entre los alfanges, 
Gracioso en baylar las zambras." 

The ancient ballads are stamped with the character of 
their heroes. I could give abundant illustrations of this, 
but it is not necessary. 

Among the most spirited of the Moorish ballads are 
those which are interwoven in the History of the Civil 
V/ars of Granada. The following, entitled "A very 
mournful Ballad on the Siege and Conquest of Alhama," 
is very beautiful : and such was the effect it produced 
upon the Moors, that it was forbidden, on pain of death, 
to sing it within the walls of Granada. The translation, 
which is executed with great skill and fidelity, is from 
the pen of Lord Byron. 

" The Moorish king rides up and down, 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
Woe is me, Alhama I 

** Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell ; 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew, 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" He quits his mule, and mounts his horse. 
And through the street directs his course, 
Through the streets of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** When the Alhambra's walls he gained 
On the moment he ordained 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 153 

That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 
Woe is me, Alhama I 

** And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain, — 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** Then the Moors, by this aware 

That bloody Mars recalled them there, 

One by one, and two by two, 

To a mighty squadron grew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before : 

* Wherefore call on us, king ? 
What may mean this gathering ? ' 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" ' Friends ! yc have, alas ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow. — 
That the Christians, stern and bold. 
Have obtained Alhama s hold. 
Woe is me, Alhama I 

** Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see : 

* Good king, thou art justly served j 
Good king, this thou hast deserved. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

*' By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The AbeneerragG, Granada's iiower ; 
And strangers were received by the© 
Of Cordova the chivalry. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 



154 ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 

*' * And for this, king ! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement ; 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** *He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law ; "^ 

And Granada must be won, 
And thyself with her undone. ' 
"Woe is me, Alhama ! 

"Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes ; 
The monarch's wrath began to rise, 
Because he answered, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** 'There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings ! 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish king, and doomed him dead. 
Woe is me, Alhama !" 

Such are tlie ancient ballads of Spain ; poems which, 
like the Gothic cathedrals of the Middle Ages, haye out- 
liyed the names of their builders. They are the handi- 
work of wandering, homeless minstrels, who for their daily 
bread thus ^Mxiilt the lofty rhyme"; and whose names, 
like their dust and ashes, have long, long been wrapped 
in a shroud. *' These poets," says an anonymous writer, 
" have left behind them no trace to T/hicli the imagination 
can attach itself; they have ^ died and made no sign.' 
We pass from the infancy of Spanish poetry to the age of 
Charles, through a long vista of monuments without 
inscriptions, as the traveller approaches the noise and 
bustle of modern Home through the lines of silent and 
unknown tombs that border the Appian Way." 



ANCIENT SPANISH BA LLADS, 155 

Before closing this essay, I must allude to the unfavora- 
ble opinion which the learned Dr. Southey has expressed 
concerning the merit of these old Spanish ballads. In his 
preface to the Chronicle of the Cid, he says : " The 
heroic ballads of the Spaniards have been overrated in 
this country ; they are infinitely and every way inferior 
to our own. There are some spirited ones in the Guerras 
Civiles de Granada, from which the rest have been esti- 
mated ; but excepting these, I know none of any val.ie 
among the many hundreds which I have perused." On 
this field I am willing to do battle, though it be with a 
veteran knight who bears enchanted arms, and whose 
sword, like that of Martin Antolinez, " illumines all the 
field. " That the old Spanish ballads may have been over- 
rated, and that as a whole they are inferior to the English, 
I concede ; that many of the hundred ballads of the Cid 
are wanting in interest', and that many of those of the 
Twelve Peers of France are languid, and drawn out 
beyond the patience of the most patient reader, I concede ; 
I willingly confess, also, that among them all I have found 
none that can rival in graphic power the short but won- 
derful ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, wherein the mariner 
sees ^^the new moon with the old moon in her arms," or 
the more modern one of the Battle of Agincourt, by 
Michael Drayton, beginning, — 

" Fair stood the wind for France, 
As we our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry ; 
But putting to the main, 
At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 

Landed King Harry." 



156 ANCIENT SPANL^JI BALLADS. 

All this I readily concede : but that the old Spanish 
ballads are infinitely and every way inferior to the Eng- 
lish, and that among them all there arc none of any value, 
save a few which celebrate the civil wars of Granada, — 
this I deny. I think the March of Bernardo del Oarpio 
is equal to Chevy Chase ; and that the ballad of the Conde 
Alarcos, in simplicity and pathos, has no peer in all Eng- 
lish balladiy, — it is superior to Edem o' Gordon. In proof 
of this opinion I confidently appeal to the ballads them- 
selves, — nay, even to the short specimens that have been 
given in this essay. 

But a trace to criticism. Already, methinks, I hear 
the voice of a drowsy and prosaic herald proclaiming, in 
the language of Don Quixote to the puppet-player, " Make 
an end. Master Peter, for it grows toward supper-time, 
and I have some symptoms of hunger upon me." 



THE VILLAGE OP EL PARDILLO. 

"When the lawyer is swallowed up with business, and the statesman is pre« 
Tenting or contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, 
and possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams we now 
see glide so quietly by us." Izaak Walton. 

IN that delicious season when the coy and capricious 
maidenhood of spring is swelling into the warmer, 
riper, and more Yoluptuous womanhood of summer, I left 
Madrid for the village of El Pardillo. I had already seen 
enough of the Tillages of the North of Spain to know 
that for the most part they haye few charms to entice 
one from the city ; but I was curious to see the peasantry 
of the land in their native homes, — to see how far the 
shepherds of Castile resemble those who sigh and sing in 
the pastoral romances of Montemayor and Gaspar Gil 
Polo. 

I love the city and its busy hum ; I love that glad ex- 
citement of the crowd which makes the pulse beat quick, 
the freedom from restraint, the absence of those curious 
eyes and idle tongues which persecute you in villages and 
provincial towns. I love the country, too, in its season ; and 
there is no scene over which my eye roves with more de- 
light than the face of a summer landscape dimpled with 
soft sunny hollows, and smiling in all the freshness and 
luxuriance of June. There is no book in which I read 
sweeter lessons of virtue, or find the beauty of a quiet life 
more legibly recorded. My heart drinks in the tranquil- 
l)*iy of the scene ; and I never hear the sweet warble of a 
157 



158 THE VILLAGE OF EL PAJRDILLO. 

bird from its native wood, without a silent wish that such 
a cheerful yoice and peaceful shade were mine. There is 
a beautiful moral feeling connected with eyerything in 
rural life, which is not dreamed of in the philosophy of 
the city ; the voice of the brook and the language of the 
winds and woods are no poetic fiction. What an impres- 
sive lesson is there in the opening bud of spring ! what 
an eloquent homily in the fall of the autumnal leaf ! Hovvt 
well does the song of a passing bird represent the glad 
but transitory days of youth ! and in the hollow tree and 
hooting owl what a melancholy image of the decay and 
imbecility of old age ! In the beautiful language of an 
English poet, — 

''Your voiceless lips, flowers, are living preachers, 
Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers. 
From loneliest nook. 

*' 'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer ; 

**Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand. 
But to that fane most catholic and solemn 
Which God hath planned ; 

** To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder. 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, — 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, 
Its dome the sky. 

"There, amid solitude and shade, I wander 
Through the green aisles, and, stretched upon the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God." 



THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 159 

But the traveller who journeys through the northern 
proyinces of Spain will look in vain for the charms of 
rural scenery in the villages he passes. Instead of trim 
cottages, and gardens, and the grateful shade of trees, he 
will see a cluster of stone hovels roofed with red tiles and 
basking in the hot sun, without a single tree to lend him 
shade or shelter ; and instead of green meadows and 
woodlands vocal with the song of birds, he will find 
bleak and rugged mountains, and vast extended plains, 
that stretch away beyond his ken. 

It was my good fortune, however, to find, not many^ 
leagues from the metropolis, a village which could boast 
the shadow of a few trees. El Pardillo is situated on the 
southern slope of the Guardarama Mountains, just where 
the last broken spurs of the sierra stretch forward into 
the vast table-land of Xew Castile. The village itcclf, 
like most other Castilian villages, is only a cluster of 
weather-stained and dilapidated houses, huddled together 
without beauty or regularity ; but the scenery around it 
is picturesque, — a mingling of hill and dale, sprinkled 
with patches of cultivated land and clumps of forest- 
trees ; and in the background the blue, vapory outline of 
the Guardarama Mountains melting into the sky. 

In this quiet place I sojourned for a season, accompa- 
nied by the publican Don Valentin and his fair daughter 
Florencia. We took up our abode in the cottage of a 
peasant named Lucas, an honest tiller of the soil, simple 
and good-natured ; or, in the more emphatic language of 
Don Valentin, ^' un Iwiiibre muy infeliz, y sin malicia 
ninguna.^^ Not so his wife Matina ; she vfas a Tartar, 
and so mettlesome withal, that j)oor Lucas skulked dog- 
gedly about his own premises, with his head down and 
his tail between his legs. 



160 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 

In this little village my occupations were few and sim- 
ple. My morning's walk Y\^as to the Cross of Espalmado, 
a large wooden crucifix in the fields ; the day was passed 
with books or with any idle companion I was lucky enough 
to catch by the button, and bribe with a cigar into a long 
story, or a little village gossip ; and I whiled away the even- 
ing in peeping round among the cottagers, studying the 
beautiful landscape that spread before me, and watching 
the occasional gathering of a storm about the blue peaks of 
the Guardarama Mountains. My favorite haunt was a se- 
cluded spot in a little woodland valley, through which a 
crystal brook ran brawling along its pebbly channel. 
There, stretched in the shadow of a tree, I often passed 
the hours of noontide heat, now reading the magic 
numbers of Garcilaso, and anon listening to the song of 
the nightingale overhead ; or watching the toil of a 
patient ant, as he rolled his stone, like Sisyphus, up hill, 
or the flight of a bee darting from flower to flower, and 
'Gliding his murmurs in the rose." 

Blame me not, thou studious moralist, — blame me not 
unheard for this idle dreaming ; such moments are not 
wholly thrown away. In the language of Goethe, ^^ I 
lie down in the grass near a falling brook, and close to the 
earth a thousand varieties of grasses became perceptible. 
When I listen to tlie hum of the little world between the 
stubble, and see the countless indescribable forms of 
insects, I feel the presence of the Almighty who has 
created us, — the breath of the All-benevolent who sup- 
ports us in perpetual enjoyment." 

The village church, too, was a spot around which I 
occasionally lingered of an evening when in pensive oi 
melancholy mood. And here, gentle reader, thy imagina- 
tion will straightway conjure up a scene of ideal beauty,-- 



THE VILLAGE OF EL PABBILLO. 161 

a Tillage church with decent whitewashed walls, and 
modest spire just peeping forth from a clump of trees ! 
No ; I will not deceiye thee ; the church of El Pardillo 
resembles not this picture of thy well-tutored fancy. It 
is a gloomy little edifice, standing upon the outskirts of 
the yillage, and built of dark and unhewn stone, with a 
spire like a sugar-loaf. There is no grass-plot in front, 
but a little esplanade beaten hard by the footsteps of the 
church-going peasantry. The tombstone of on^ of the 
patriarchs of the yillage serves as a doorstep, and a single 
solitary tree throws its friendly shade upon the portals 
of the little sanctuary. 

One eyening, as I loitered around this spot, the so and 
of an organ and the chant of youthful yoices from within 
struck my ear ; the church door was ajar, and I entered. 
There stood the priest, surrounded by a gi'oup of children, 
who v/cre chanting a hymn to the Virgin : — 

** Ave Regina coelorum, 
Ave, Domina angelorura." 

There is something exceedingly thrilling in the voices of 
children singing. Though their music be unskilful, yet 
it finds its way to the heart with wonderful celerity. 
Voices of cherubs are they, for they breathe of paradise ; 
clear, liquid tones that flow from jDure lips and innocent 
hearts, like the sweetest notes of a flute, or the falling of 
water from a fountain ! When the chant was finished, 
the priest opened a little book which he held in his hand, 
and began, with a voice as solemn as a funeral-bell, to 
question this class of roguish little catechumens, whom 
he was initiating into the mysterious doctrines of the 
m.other church. Some of the questions and answers 
11 



162 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 

were so curious that I cannot refrain from repeating 
them here ; and should any one doubt their authenticity^, 
he will fmd them in the Spanish catechisms. 

*^ In what consists the mystery of the Holy Trinity ? " 

*^ In one God, who is three persons ; and three per- 
sons, who arc but one God." 

^' But tell me, — three human persons, are they not 
three men ? " 

^^Ye^ father." 

'^ Then why are not three diyine persons three 
Gods?" 

'^ Because three human persons have three human 
natures ; but the three divine persons have only ene 
divine nature." 

" Can you explain this by an example ?" 

'^ Yes, father ; as a tree which has three branches ia 
still but one tree, since all the three branches spring 
from one trunk, so the three divine persona are but one 
God, because they all have the same divine nature." 

*' Where were these three divine persons before the 
heavens and the earth were created ? " 

"In themselves." 

" Which of them was made man ? " 

"The Son." 

" And after the Son was made man, was he still God ? " 

" Yes, father ; for in becoming man he did not cease 
to be God, any more than a man when he becomes a 
monk ceases to be a man." 

"How was the Son of God made flesh ?" 

*''Iie was born of the most holy Virgin Mary." 

*^ And can we still call her a virgin ? " 

■" Yes, father ; for as a ray of the sun may pass through 
a pane of glass, and the glass remain unbroken, so the 



THE VILLAGE OF EL hARDILLO. 163 

Virgin Mary, after the birth of her son, was a pure and 
holy yirgin as before."''' 

*^ Who died to save and redeem us ? " 

" The Son of God : as man, and not as God." 

" How could he suffer and die as man only being both 
God and mon, and yet but one person ? " 

"As in a heated bar of iron upo-u which water is 
thrown, the heat only is affected and not the iron, so the 
Son of God suffered in his human nature and not in his 
divine." 

" And when the spirit was separated from his most 
precious body, whither did the spirit go ? " 

" To limbo, to glorify the souls of the holy fathers/' 
• " And the body ? " 

'^ It was carried to the gi'aye." 

"Did the divinity remain united with the spirit or 
with the body ? " 

" With both. As a soldier, when he unsheathes his 
sword, remains united both with the sword and the 
sheath, though they are separated from each other, so 
did the divinity remain united both with the spirit and 



* This illustration was also made use of during the dark ages, 
Pierre de Gorbiac, a Troubadour of the thirteenth century, thus 
introduces it in a poem entitled "Prayer to the Virgin" ; — 

** Domna, verges pur' e fiua 
Ans que fos 1' enfantamens, 
Et apres tot eissamens, 
De vos trais sa earn humana 
Jhesu-Christ nostre salvaire ; 
Si com ses trencamcns fairs 
Intra'l bel rais quan solelha 
Per la fenestra veirina." 



164 THE VILLAGE OF EL PAEDILLO, 

the body of Christ, though the spirit was separated and 
removed from the body." 

I did not quarrel with the priest for having been born 
and educated in a different faith from mine ; but as I 
left the church and sauntered slowly homeward, I could 
not help asking myself, in a whisper, " Why perplex the 
spirit of a child with these metaphysical subtilties, these 
dark, mysterious speculations, which man in all his pride 
of intellect cannot fathom nor explain ? '' 

I must not forget, in this place, to make honorable 
mention of the little great men of El Pardillo. And 
first in order comes the priest, the bell-wether of the 
flock. He was a short, portly man, serious in manner, 
and of grave and reverend presence ; though at the same- 
time there was a dash of the Jolly-fat-friar about him ; 
and on hearing a good joke or a sly innuendo, a smile 
would gleam in his eye, and play over his round face, 
like the light of a glowworm. His housekeeper was a 
brisk, smiling little woman, on the shady side of thirty, 
and a cousin of his to boot. Whenever she was men- 
tioned, Don Yalentin looked wise, as if this cousinship 
were apocryphal ; but he said nothing, — not he ; what 
right had he to be peeping into other people's business, 
when he had only one eye to look after his own withal ? 
Next in rank to the Dominie was the Alcalde, justice of 
the peace and quorum ; a most potent, grave, and rever- 
end personage, with a long beak of a nose, and a pouch 
under his cliin, like a pelican. He was a man of few 
words, but great in authority ; and his importance was 
vastly increased in the village by a pair of double-bar- 
relled spectacles, so contrived, that, when bent over his 
desk and deeply buried in his musty papers, he could look 
up and see what was going on around him without mov- 



TEE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 165 

ing his head, whereby he got the reputation of seeing 
twice as much as other people. There was the village 
surgeon, too, a tall man with a yamished hat and a 
starred dog ; he had studied at the University of Sala- 
manca, and was pompous and pedantic, ever and anon 
quoting some threadbare maxim from the Greek philoso- 
phers, and embellishing it with a commentary of his own. 
Then there was the gray-headed Sacristan, who rang the 
church-bell, played on the organ, and was learned in 
tombstone lore ; a Politician, who talked me to death 
about taxes, liberty, and the days of the constitution ; 
and a Notary Public, a poor man with a large family, 
who would make a paper cigar last half an hour, and who 
kept up his respectability in the village by keeping a horse. 
Beneath the protecting shade of these great men full 
many an inhabitant of El Pardillo was born and buried. 
The village continued to flourish, a quiet, happy place, 
though all unknown to fame. The inhabitants were or- 
derly and industrious, went regularly to mass and confes- 
sion, kept every saint's day in the calendar, and devoutly 
hung Judas once a year in effigy. On Sundays and 
all other holidays, when mass was over, the time was de- 
voted to sports and recreation ; and the day passed off in 
social visiting, and athletic exercises, such as running, 
leaping, wrestling, pitching quoits, and heaving the bar. 
When evening came, the merry sound of the guitar sum- 
moned to the dance ; then every nook and alley poured 
forth its youthful company, — light of heart and heel, and 
decked out in all the holiday finery of flowers, and rib- 
bons, and crimson sashes. A group gathered before the 
cottage-door ; the signal was given, and away whirled the 
merry dancers to the wild music of voice and guitar, and 
the measured beat of castanet and tambourine. 



166 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO. 

I love these rural dances, — from my heart I love them. 
This world, at bei&t, is so full of care and sorrow, — the life 
of a poor man is so stained with the sweat of his brow, — 
there is so much toil, and struggling, and anguish, and 
disappointment here below, tliat I gaze with delight on a 
scene where all these are laid aside and forgotten, and 
the heart of the toil-worn peasant seems to throw off its 
load, and to leap to the sound of music, so merrily 

** beneath soft eve's consenting star, 
Fandango twirls his jocund east9,net." 

Not many miles from the village of El Pardillo stands 
the ruined castle of Villafranca, an ancient stronghold of 
the Moors of the fifteenth century. It is built upon the 
summit of a hill, of easy ascent upon one side, but pre- 
cipitous and inaccessible on the other. The front pre- 
sents a large, square tower, constituting the main part of 
the castle ; on one side of which an arched gateway leads 
to a spacious court-yard within, surrounded by battle- 
ments. The corner towers are circular, with beetling 
turrets ; and here and there, apart from the main body of 
the castle, stand several circular basements, whose towens 
have fallen and mouldered into dust. From the balcony 
in the square tower, the eye embraces the level landscape 
for leagues and leagues around ; and beneath, in the 
depth of the valley, lies a beautiful grove, alive with the 
song of the nightingale. The whole castle is in ruin, and 
occupied only as a hunting-lodge, being inhabited by a 
solitary tenant, who has charge of the adjacent domain. 

One holiday, when mass was said, and the whole village 
was let loose to play, we made a pilgrimage to the ruins 
of this old Moorish alcazar. Our cavalcade was as motlej 



THE VILLAGE OF EL PABDILLO. 167 

as that of old, — the pilgrims ** that toward Canterbury 
wolden ride" ; for we had the priest, and the doctor of 
physic, and the man of laws, and a wife of Bath, and 
many more whom I must leave unsung. Merrily flew the 
hours and fast ; and sitting after dinner in the gloomy 
hall of that old castle, many a tale was told, and many a 
legend and tradition of the past conjured up to satisfy 
the curiosity of the present. 

Most of these tales were about the Moors who built the 
castle, and the treasures they had buried beneath it. 
Then the priest told the story of a lawyer who sold him- 
seK to the devil for a pot of money, and was burnt by the 
Holy Inquisition therefor. In his confession, he told 
how he had learned from a Jew the secret of raising the 
devil ; how he went to the castle at midnight with a 
book which the Jew gave him, and, to make the 
charm sure, carried with him a loadstone, six nails 
from the cofiBn of a child of three years, six tapers of 
rosewax, made by a child of four years, the skin and 
blood of a young kid, an iron fork, with which the 
kid had been killed, a few hazel-rods, a flask of high- 
proof brandy, and some lignum-vitae charcoal to make 
a fire. When he read in the book, the devil appeared 
in the shape of a man dressed in flesh-colored clothes, 
with long nails, and large fiery eyes, and he signed an 
agreement with him written in blood, promising never 
to go to mass, and to give him his soul at the end of 
eight years ; in return for this he was to have a million 
of dollars in good money, which the devil was to bring 
to him the next night ; but when the next night came, 
and the lawyer had conjured from his book, instead of 
the devil, there appeared — who do you think ? the alcalde 
with half the village at his heels, and the poor lawyer 



168 THE VILLAGE OF EL PARBILLO. 

was handed oyer to the Inquisition, and burnt for dealing 
in the black art. 

I intended to repeat here some of the many tales that 
were told, but, upon reflection, they seem too frivolous, 
and must therefore give place to a more serious theme 



THE MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL POETRY 
OF SPAIN. 

Heaven's dove, when highest he flies, * 
Flies with thy heavenly wings. 

Crashaw. 

THERE is hardly a chapter in literary history mor© 
strongly marked with the peculiarities of national 
character than that which contains the moral and devo- 
tional poetry of Spain. It would naturally be expected 
that in this department of literature all the fervency and 
depth of national feeling would be exhibited. But still, 
as the spirit of morality and devotion is the same, wher- 
ever it exists, — as the enthusiasm of virtue and religion is 
everywhere essentially the same feeling, though modified 
in its degree and in its action by a variety of physical 
causes and local circumstances, — and as the subject of 
the didactic verse and the spiritual canticle cannot be 
materially changed by the change of nation and climate, 
;t might at the first glance seem quite as natural to expect 
that the moral and devotional poetry of Christian coun- 
tries would never be very strongly marked with national 
peculiarities : in other words, we should expect it to cor- 
respond to the warmth or coldness of national feeling, for 
it is the external and visible expression of this feeling ; 
but not to the distinctions of national character, because, 
its nature and object being everywhere the same, these 
distinctions become swallowed up in one universal Chris- 
tian character. ^ 
169 



170 THE MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

In moral poetry this is doubtless true. The great prin- 
ciples of Christian morality being eternal and invariable, 
the Terse which embodies and represents them must, from 
this very circumstance, be the same in its spirit through 
all Christian lands. The same, however, is not. necessa- 
rily true of devotional or religious poetry. There, the 
language of poetry is something more than the visible 
image of a devotional spirit. It is also an expression of 
religious faith ; shadowing forth, with greater or less dis- 
tinctness, its various creeds and doctrines. As these are 
different in different nations, the spirit that breathes in 
religious song, and the letter that gives utterance to the 
doctrine of faith, will not be universally the same. Thus, 
Catholic nations sing the praises of the Virgin Mary in 
language in which nations of the Protestant faith do not 
unite ; and among Protestants themselves, the difference 
of interpretations, and the consequent belief or disbelief 
of certain doctrines, give a various spirit and expression 
to religious poetry. And yet, in all, the devotional feel- 
ing, the heavenward volition, is the same. 

So far, then, as peculiarities of religious faith exercise 
an influence upon intellectual habits, and thus become a 
part of national character, just so far will the devotional 
or religious poetry of a country exhibit the characteristic 
pecuharities resulting from this influence of faith, and its 
assimilation with the national mind. Now Spain is by pre- 
eminence the Catholic land of Christendom. Most of her 
historic recollections are more or less intimately associated 
with the triumphs of the Christian faith ; and many of 
her warriors — of her best and bravest — were martyrs in 
the holy cause, perishing in that war of centuries which 
was carried on within her own territories between ih« 
TTescent of Mahomet and the cross of Christ. Indeed, 



POLTLY OF SPAIN. IH 

the whole tissue of her history is interwoven with miracu- 
lous traditions. The inteiTention of her patron saint has 
saved her .honor in more than one dangerous pass ; and 
the war-shout of '' Santiago, y cierra Espaha ! '' has worked 
like a charm upon the wavering spirit of the soldier. A 
reliance on the guardian ministry of the saints pervades 
the whole people, and devotional offerings for signal pres- 
ervation in times of danger and distress cover the conse- 
crated walls of churches. An enthusiasm of religious 
feeling, and of external ritual observances, prevails 
throughout the land. But more particularly is the name 
of the Virgin honored and adored.. Ave Maria is the 
salutation of peace at fche friendly threshold, and the God- 
speed to the wayfarer. It is the evening orison, when the 
toils of day are done ; and at midnight it echoes along the 
solitary streets in the voice of the watchman's cry. 

These and similar peculiarities of religious faith are 
breathing and moving through a large portion of the devo- 
tional poetry of Spain. It is not only instinct with religi- 
ous feeling, but incorporated with ''the substance of 
things not seen." Not only are the poet^s lipn touched 
with a coal from the altar, but his spirit is folded in the 
cloud of incense that rises before the shrines of the Virgin 
Mother, and the glorious company of the saints and 
martyi's. His soul is not wholly swallowed up in the con- 
templation of the sublime attributes of the Eternal Mind ; 
but, with its lamp trimmed and burning, it goeth out to 
meet the bridgeroom, as if he were coming in a bodily 
presence. 

The histoiy of the devotional poetry of Spain Com- 
mences with the legendary lore of Maestro Gonzalo de 
Berceo, a secular priest, whose life was passed in the 
cloisters of a Benedictine convent, and amid the shadows 



172 THE MOliAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

of the thirteenth century. The name of Berceo stands 
foremost on the catalogue of Spanish poets, for the 
author of the poem of the Cid is unknown. The old 
patriarch of Spanish poetry has left a monument of his 
existence in upwards of thirteen thousand alexandrines, 
celebrating the lives and miracles of saints and the Virgin, 
as he found them written in the Latin chronicles and 
dusty legends of his monastery. In embodying these in 
nide verse in roman paladino, or the old Spanish romance 
tongue, intelligible to the common people, Fray Gonzalo 
seems to have passed his life. His writings are just such 
as we should expect from the pen of a monk of the thir- 
teenth century. They are more ghostly than poetical ; 
and throughout, unction holds the place of inspiration. 
Accordingly, they illustrate very fully the preceding re- 
marks ; and ^he more so, inasmuch as they are written 
with the most ample and childish credulity, and the ut- 
most singleness of faith touching the events and miraclfes 
described. 

The following extract is taken from one of Berceo's 
poems, entitled " Vida de San Millan.'^ It is a descrip- 
tion of the miraculous appearance of Santiago and San 
Millan, mounted on snow-white steeds, and fighting for 
the cause of Christendom, at the battle of Simancas in 
the Campo de Toro. 

" And when the kings were in the field,— their squadrons in array, — 
With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the fray; 
But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes, — 
These were a numerous army, — a little handful those. 

" And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty. 
Upward to heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their thoughte 
on high; 



POETRY OF 8PAIN. 173 

And these two persons they beheld, all beautiful and bright, 
Even than the pure new-fallen snow their garments were more 
white. 

" They rode upon two horses more white than crystal sheen, 
And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had seen; 
The one, he held a crosier, — a pontiff's mitre wore; 
Th^ other held a crucifix, — such man ne'er saw before. 

" There faces were angelical, celestial forms had they, — 
And downward through the fields of air they urged their rapid 

way; 
They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry look, 
And in their hands, wdth dire portent, their naked sabres shook. 

*'The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart again; 
They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain. 
And each one with his clenched fist to smite his breast begins, 
And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins. 

'* And when the heavenly knights drew near unto the battle- 
ground, 
They dashed among the Moors and dealt unerring blows around ; 
Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost ranks along, 
A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throng. 

** Together with these two good knights, the champions of the sky, 
The Christians rallied and began to smite full sore and high ; 
The Moors raised up their voices and by the Koran swore 
That in their lives such deadly fray they ne'er had seen before. 

" Down went the misbelievers, — fast sped the bloody fight, — 
Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some haK dead with 

fright : 
Full sorely they repented that to the field they came, 
For they saw that from the battle they should retreat with shame, 

" Another thing befell them, — they dreamed not of such woes, — 
The very arrows that the Moors shot from their twanging bows 



174 THE MORAL uiND DEVOTIONAL 

Turned back against them in their flight and wounded them full 

sore, 
And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of gore. 

" Now he that bore the crozier, and the papal crown had on, 
Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint John ; 
And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monkish hood, , 
Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla's neighborhood." 

Berceo's longest poem is entitled Miraclos de Nuestra 
Senora, '' Miracles of Our Lady." It consists of nearly 
four thousand lines, and contains the description of 
twenty-five miracles. It is a complete homily on the 
homage and devotion due to the glorious Virgin, Madre 
de Jim XtOy Mother of Jesus Christ ; but it is written in 
a low and vulgar style, strikingly at variance with the 
elevated character of the subject. Thus, in the twentieth 
miracle, we have the account of a monk who became in- 
toxicated in a wine-cellar. Having lain on the floor till 
the vesper-bell aroused him, he staggered off towards 
the church in most melancholy plight. The Evil One 
besets him on the wa}^ aesuming the various shapes of a 
bull, a dog, and a lion ; but from all these perils 
he is miraculously saved by the timely intervention of 
the Virgin, who, finding him still too much intoxicated 
to make his way to bed, kindly takes him by the hand, 
leads him to his pallet, covers him with a blanket 
and a counterpane, smooths his pillow, and, after mak- 
ing the sign of the cross over him, tells him to rest quietly, 
for sleej) will do him good. 

To a certain class of minds there may be something in- 
teresting and even affecting in descriptions which represent 
the spirit of a departed saint as thus assuming a corpo- 
real shape, in order to assist and console human nature 



POETRY OF SPAm. 175 

even in its baser infirmities ; but it ought also to be con- 
sidered how much such descriptions tend to strip religion 
of its peculiar sanctity, to bring it down from its heavenly 
abode, not merely to dwell among men, but, like an im- 
prisonad culprit, to be chained to the derelict of princi- 
ple, manacled with the base desire and earthly passion, 
and forced to do the menial offices of a slave. In de- 
scriptiops of this kind, as in the representations of our 
Savioui* and of sainted spirits in human shape, execution 
must ol necessity fall far short of the conception. The 
handiwDrk cannot equal the glorious archetype, which is 
visiblf: only to the mental eye. Painting and sculpture 
are d H adequate to the task of embodying in a perma- 
nent shape the glorious visions, the radiant forms, the 
glimpses of heaven, which fill the imagination, when 
purified and exalted by devotion. The hand of man 
UP consciously inscribes upon all his works the sentence 
Oi imperfection, which the finger of the invisible hand 
wrote upon the wall of the Assyrian monarch. From 
this it would seem to be not only a natural but a neces- 
sary conclusion, that all the descriptions of poetry which 
borrow anything, either directly or indirectly, from these 
bodily and imperfect representations, must partake of 
their imperfection, and assume a more earthly and mate- 
rial character than these which come glowing and burn- 
ing from the more spiritualized perceptions of the inter- 
nal sense. « 

It is very far from my intention to utter any sweeping 
denunciation against the divine arts of painting and 
sculpture as employed in the exhibition of Scriptural 
scenes and personages. These I esteem meet ornaments 
for the house of God ; though, as I have already said, 
their execution cannot equal the high conceptions of 



17G THE 3I0RAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

an ardent imagination, yet, whenever tlie hand of a mas* 
ter is visible, — when the marble almost moves before you, 
and the painting starts into life . from the canvas, — the 
effect upon an enlightened mind will generally, if not 
universally, be to quicken its sensibilities and excite to 
more ardent devotion, by carrying the thoughts beyond 
the representations of bodily suffering, to the contempla- 
tion of the intenser mental agony, — the moral sublimity 
exhibited by the martyr. The impressions produced, 
however, will not be the same in all minds ; they will 
necessarily vary according to the prevailing temper and 
complexion of the mind which receives them. As there 
is no sound where there is no ear to receive the impulses 
and vibrations of the air, so is there no moral impression, 
— no voice of instruction from all the works of nature, 
and all the imitations of art, — unless there be within the 
soul itself a capacity for hearing the voice and receiving 
the moral impulse. The cause exists eternally and uni- 
versally ; but the effect is produced only when and where 
the cause has room to act, and just in proportion as it 
has room to act. Hence the various moral impressions, 
and the several degrees of the same moral impression, 
which an object may produce in different minds. These 
impressions will vary in kind and in degree according to 
the acuteness and the cultivation of the internal moral 
sense. And thus the representations spoken of above 
might exercise a very favorable influence upon an enlight- 
ened and well-regulated mind, and at the same time a 
very unfavorable influence upon an unenlightened and 
superstitious one. And the reason is obvious. An en- 
lightened mind beholds all things in their just propor- 
tions, and receives from them the true impressions they 
are calculated to convey. It is not hoodwinked, — it is 



POBTIiY OF SPAiy. 177 

not shut up in a gloomy prison, till it thinks the walls of 
its own dungeon the limits of the universe, and the reach 
of its own chain the outer verge of all intelligence ; but 
it walks abroad ; the sunshine and the air pour in to en- 
lighten and expand it ; the various works of nature are its 
ministering angels ; the glad recipient of light and wis- 
dom, it develops new powers and acquires increased capac- 
ities, and thus, rendering itself less subject to error, assumes 
a nearer similitude to the Eternal Mind. But not so the 
dark and superstitious mind. It is filled with its own an- 
tique and mouldy furniture, — the moth-eaten tome, the 
gloomy tapestry, the dusty curtain. The straggling sun- 
beam from without streams through the stained window, 
and as it enters assumes the colors of the painted glass ; 
while the half-extinguished fire within, now smouldering 
in its ashes, and now shooting forth a quivering flame, 
casts fantastic shadows through the chambers of the soul. 
Within the spirit sits, lost in its own abstractions. The 
voice of nature from without is hardly audible ; her beau- 
ties are unseen, or seen only in shadowy forms, through 
a colored medium, and with a strained and distorted 
vision. The invigorating air does not enter that myste- 
rious chamber ; it visits not that lonely inmate, who, 
breathing only a close, exhausted atmosphere, exhibits in 
the languid frame and feverish pulse the marks of linger- 
ing, incurable disease. The picture is not too strongly 
sketched ; such is the contrast between the free and the 
superstitious mind. Upon the latter, which has little 
power over its ideas, — ^to generalize them, to place them 
in their proper light and position, to reason upon, to dis- 
criminate, to judge them in detail, and thus to arrive at 
just conclusions ; but, on the contrary, receives every 
crude and inadequate impression as it first presents itself, 
12 



178 THE MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

and treasures it up as an ultimate fact, — upon sucli a 
mind, representations of Scripture - scenes, like those 
mentioned above, exercise an unfavorable influence. 
Such a mind cannot rightly estimate, it cannot feel, the 
work of a master ; and a miserable daub, or a still mors 
miserable caricature carved in wood, will serve only to 
increase the burden which weighs the spirit down to 
earth. Thus, in the unenlightened mind, these repre- 
sentations have a tendency to sensualize and desecrate 
the character of holy things. Being brought constantly 
before the eye, and represented in a real and palpable 
form to the external senses, they lose, by being made too 
familiar, that peculiar sanctity with which the mind 
naturally invests the unearthly and invisible. 

It is curious to observe the influence of the circum- 
stances just referred to upon the devotional poetry of 
Spain.* Sometimes it exhibits itself directly and fully, 

* The following beautiful little hymn in Latin, written by the 
celebrated Francisco Xavier, the friend and companion of Loyola, 
and from his zeal in the Eastern missions surnamed the Apostle of 
the Indias, would hardly have originated in any mind but that of 
one familiar with the representations of which I have spoken above. 

•* Deus ! ego amo te : 
Nee amo te, ut salves me, 
Aut quia non amantes te 
^temo punis igne. 

" Tu, tu, mi Jesu, totum me 
Amplexus es in cmce. 
Tuhsti clavos, lanceam 
Multamque ignominiam : 
Innumeros dolores, 
Sudores et angores, 
Ac mortem : et hasc propter me 
Ac pro me peccatore. 



POETRY OF SPAIN. 179 

afc others more indirectly and incidentally, but ahvays 
with sufficient clearness to indicate its origin. Some- 
times it destroys the beauty of a poem by a miserable 

'* Cur igitur non amem te, 
Jesu araantissime ? 
Non ut in coelo salves me, 
Aut ne aeternum damnes me, 
Kec proemii ullius spe : 
Sed sicut tu amasti me. 
Sic amo et amabo te : 
Solum quia rex mens es, 
Et solum quia Deus es. 
Amen." 

*' God I my spirit loves but thee : 
Kot that in heaven its home may be. 
Nor that the souls which love not thee 
Shall groan in fire eternally. 

'* But thou on the accursed tree 
In mercy hast embraced me. 
For me the cruel nails, the spear, 
The ignominious scoff, didst bear, ^ 

Countless, unutterable woes, — 
The bloody sweat,— death's pangs and throes,'-«» 
These didst thou bear, all these for me, 
A sinner and estranged from thee. 

** And wherefore no affection show, 
Jesus, to thee that lov'st me so ? 
Not that in heaven my home may be, 
Not lest 1 die eternally, — 
Nor from the hopes of joys above me, 
But even as thou thyself didst love me^ 
So love I, and will ever love thee : 
Solely because my King art thou. 
My God forevermore as now. 
r Amen." 



180 Tn.~: MDRAL AlTD DEVOTIONAL 

Conceit ; at other times it gives it the character o£ a 
beautiful allegory.* 

The following sonnets will cerve as illustrations. They 
are from the hand of the wonderful Lope de Vega : — 

*'■ Shepherd! that with thine amorous sylvan song 
Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me, 
That madest thy crook from the accursed tree 
Oij which thy powerful arms were stretched so long,— 

Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains, 
For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shall be, 
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 

Hear, Shepherd ! — thou that for thy flock art dying, 
0, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 

wait! — to thee my weary soul is crying, — 
Wait for me ! — yet why ask it, when I see. 
With feet nailed to the cross, thou art waiting still for me ? " 

"Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care 
Thou didst seek after me, — that thou didst wait. 
Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate. 
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? 

* 1 recollect but few instances of this kind of figurative poetry 
in our language. There is, however, one of most exquisite beauty 
and pathos, far surpassing anything I have seen of the kind ia 
Spanish. It is a passage from Cowper. 

** I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
Long since : with many an arrow deep infixt 
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew 
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
There was I found by one who had himself 
Been hurt by archers ; in his; side he bore. 
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
With gentle force soliciting the darts, 
He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live." 



POETR Y OF SPAm. 181 

strange delusion !— that I did not greet 
Thy bless'd approach I and 0, to Heaven how lost. 
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 
Hast chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet t 

How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 

* Soul from thy casement look without and see 
How he persists to knock and wait for thee I * 

And 0, how often to that voice of sorrow, 

* To-morrow we will open I ' 1 replied ; 

And when the morrow came, 1 answered still, * To-morrow 1 ' * 

The most remarkable portion of the deyotional poetry 
of the Spaniards is to be found in their sacred dramas, 
their Vidas de Santos and Autos Sacramentales. These 
had their origin in the Mysteries and Moralities of the 
dark ages, and are indeed monstrous creations of the im- 
agination. The Vidas de Santos, or Lives of Saints, are 
representations of their miracles, and of the wonderful 
traditions concerning them. The Autos Sacramentales 
have particular reference to the Eucharist and the cere- 
monies of the Corpus Christi, In these theatrical pieces 
are introduced upon the stage, not only angels and saints, 
but God, the Saviour, the Virgin Mary ; and in strange 
juxtaposition with these, devils, peasants, and kings ; in 
fine, they contain the strangest medley of characters, real 
and allegorical, which the imagination can conceive. As 
if this were not enough, in the midst of what was intend- 
• ed as a solemn, religious celebration, scenes of low buf- 
foonery are often introduced. 

The most remarkable of the Autos which I have read 
^is La Devocion de la Cruz, " The Devotion of the Cross." 
^'It is one of the most celebrated of Calderon's sacred 
" dramas, and will serve as a specimen of that class of writ- 
ing. As it will throw much light upon this part of the 
subject, I shall give a brief analysis of it, by way of illus- 



182 THE MOBAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

tration to mj foregoing remarks. The piece commences 
by a dialogue between Lisardo, the son of Curcio, a de- 
cayed nobleman, and Eusebio, the hero of the play and 
lover of Julia, Lisardo's sister. Though the father's ex- 
travagance has wasted his estates, Lisardo is deeply of- 
fended that Eusebio should aspire to an alliance with the 
family, and draws him into a secluded place in order to 
settle their dispute with the sword. Here the scene 
opens, and in the course of the dialogue which precedes 
the combat, Eusebio relates that he was born at the foot 
of a cross, which stood in a rugged and desert part of 
those mountains ; that the virtue of this cross preserved 
him from the wild beasts ; that, being found by a peasant 
three days after his birth, he was carried to a neighboring 
village, and there received the name of Eusebio of the 
Cross ; that, being thrown by his nurse into a well, he 
was heard to laugh, and was found floating upon the top 
of the water, with his hands placed upon his mouth in 
the form of a cross ; that the house in which he dwelt 
being consumed by fire, he escaped unharmed amid the 
flames, and it was found to be Corpus Christi day ; and, 
in fine, after relating many other similar miracles, workM 
by the power of the cross, at whose foot he was bom, he 
says that he bears its image miraculously stamped upon 
his breast. After this they fight, and Lisardo falls mor- 
tally wounded. In the next scene, Eusebio has an inter- 
view with Julia, at her father's house ; they are inter- 
rupted, and Eusebio conceals himself ; Curcio enters, 
and informs Julia that he has determined to send her that 
day to a convent, that she may take the veil, para ser te 
Crista esposa. While they are conversing, the dead body 
of Lisardo is brought in by peasants, and Eusebio is 
declared to be the murderer. The scene closes by the 



POETRY OF SPAIN. 183 

escape of Eusebio. The second act, ov Jornada, discovers 
Eusebio as the leader of a band of robbers. They fire 
upon a traveller who proves to be a priest, named Alber- 
to, and who is seeking a spot in those solitudes wherein to 
establish a hermitage. The shot is prevented from tak- 
ing effect by a book which the pious old man carries in 
his bosom, and which he says is a ** treatise on the true 
origin of the divine and heavenly tree, on which, dying 
with courage and fortitude, Christ triumphed over death ; 
in fine, the book is called the ' Miracles of the Cross.'" 
They suffer the priest to depart unharmed, who in conse- 
quence promises Eusebio that he shall not die without 
confession, but that wherever he may be, if he but call 
upon his name, he will hasten to absolve him. In the 
mean time, Julia retires to a convent, and Curcio goes 
with an armed force in pursuit of Eusebio, who has re- 
solved to gain admittance to Julia's convent. He scales 
the walls of the convent by night, and silently gropes his 
way along the corridor. Julia is discovered sleeping in 
her cell, with a taper beside her. He is, however, de- 
terred from executing his malicious designs, by discover-, 
ing upon her breast the form of a cross, similar to that 
which he bears upon his own, and ^' Heaven would not 
suffer him, though so great an offender, to lose his re- 
spect for the cross." To be brief, he leaps from the con- 
vent-walls and escapes to the mountains. Julia, count- 
ing her honor lost, having offended God, como a Dios, y 
como a esposa, pursues him, — descends the ladder from 
the convent-wall, and, when she again seeks to return to 
her cell, finds the ladder has been removed. In her de- 
spair, she accuses Heaven of having withdrawn its clem- 
ency, and vows to perform such deeds of wickedness as 
shall terrify both heaven and hell. 



184 THE MOBAL jljS'D DEVOTIONAL 

The third Jornada transports the scene back to tlie 
mountains. Julia, disguised in man's apparel, with her 
face concealed, is brought to Eusebio by a party of the 
banditti. She challenges him to single combat ; and he 
accepts the challenge, on condition that his antagonist 
shall declare who he is. Julia discovers herself ; and 
relates several horrid murders she has committed since 
leaving the convent. Their interview is here interrupted 
by the entrance of banditti, who inform Eusebio that 
Curcio, with an armed force, from all the neighboring 
villages, is approaching. The attack commences. Euse- 
bio and Curcio meet, but a secret and mysterious sympa- 
thy prevents them from fighting ; and a great number of 
peasants, coming in at this moment, rush upon Eusebio 
in a body, and he is thrown down a precipice. There 
Curcio discovers him, expiring with his numerous wounds. 
The denouement of the piece commences. Curcio, moved 
by compassion, examines a wound in Eusebio's breast, 
discovers the mark of the cross, and thereby recognizes 
him to be his son. Eusebio expires, calling on the name 
of Alberto, who shortly after enters, as if lost in those 
mountains. A voice from the dead body of Eusebio calla 
his name. I shall here transcribe a part of the scene. 



Eusebio. 


Alberto I ' 


Alberto. 


Hark I — what breath 




Of fearful Yoice is this, 




Which uttering my name 




Sounds in my ears ? 


Eus. 


Alberto ! 


Alb. 


Again it doth pronounce 




My name : methinks the voice 




Came from this side : I will 




Approach. 



POETB Y OF SPAIN, 185 

£us. Alberto I 

Alb, Hist I more near it sounds. 

Thou voice, that ridest swift 

The wind and utterest my name, 

Who art thou ? 
Eus, I am Eusebio. 

Come, good Alberto, this way come 

Where sepulchred I lie ; 

Approach, and raise these branches : 

Fear not. 
Alb, 1 do not fear. 

[Discovers the body. 

Now I behold thee. 

Speak, in God's holy name. 

What wouldst thou with me I 
£us. In his name, 

My faith, Alberto, call thee. 

That previous to my death 

Thou hearest my confession. 

Long since I should have died. 

For this stiff corpse resigned 

The disembodied soul ; 

But the strong mace of death 

Smote only, and dissevered not 

The spirit and the flesh. [Hises, 

Come then, Alberto, that I may 

Confess my sins, for oh ! they are 

More than the sands beside the sea, 

Or motes that fill the sunbeam. 

So much with Heaven avails 

Devotion to the cross. 

Eusebio then retires to confess himself to Alberto ; and 
Curcio afterward relates, that, when the venerable saint 
had given him absolution, his body again fell dead at 
his feet. Julia discovers herself, overwhelmed with the 
thoughts of her incestuous passion for Eusebio and her 
^ther crimes, and as Curcio, in a transport of indignation, 



186 THE MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

endeavors to kill her, she seizes a cross which stands o\er 
Eusebio's grave, and with it ascends to heaven, while 
Alberto shouts, gran milagro, and the curtain falls. 

Thus far have I spoken of the devotional poetry of 
Spain as modified by. the peculiarities of religious faith 
and practice. Considered apart from the dogmas of a 
creed, and as the expression of those pure and elevated 
feelings of religion which are not the prerogative of any 
one sect or denomination, but the common privilege of all, 
it possesses strong claims to our admiration and praise. I 
know of nothing in any modern tongue so beautiful as some 
of its finest passages. The thought springs heavenward 
from the soul, — the language comes burning from the lip. 
The imagination of the poet seems spiritualized ; with 
nothing of earth, and all of heaven, — a heaven, like that 
of his own native clime, without a cloud, or vapor of 
earth, to obscure its brightness. His voice, speaking the 
harmonious accents of that noble tongue, seems to flow 
from the lips of an angel, — melodious lo the ear and to 
the internal sense, — breathing those 

*' Effectual whispers, whose still voice 
The soul itself more feels than hears." 

The following sonnets of Frtocisco de Aldana, a writer 
remarkable for the beauty of his conceptions and the har- 
mony of his verse, are illustrations of this remark. In 
what glowing language he describes the aspirations of the 
soul for its paternal heaven, its celestial home ! how beau- 
tifully he portrays in a few lines the strong desire, the 
ardent longing of the exiled and imprisoned spirit, to 
wing its flight aAvay and be at rest ! The strain bears our 
thoughts upward with it ; it transports us to the heav- 



POETR T OF SPAm. 187 

enly country ; it whispers to the soul, — Higher, immortal 
spirit ! higher ! 

Clear font of light ! my native land on high, 
Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 
Mansion of truth ! without a veil or shade, 
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 

There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence. 
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath ; 
But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence 
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not death. 

Beloved country ! banished from thy shore, 
A stranger in this prison-house of clay, 
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee ! 

Heavenward the bright perfections I adore 
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, 
That whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling bo, 

Lord ! that seest from yon starry height 
Centred in one the future and the past, 
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast 
The world obscures in me what once was bright ! 

Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou hast given 
To cheer life's fiowery April fast decays ; 
Yet in the hoary winter of my days, 
Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven. 

Celestial King I O, let thy presence pass 
Before my spirit, and an image fair 
Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, 

As the reflected image in a glass 
Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there. 
And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 

The prevailing characteristics of Spanish deyotional 
poetry are warmth of imagination, and depth and sincer- 
ity of feeling. The conception is always striking and 
original, and, when not degraded by dogmas, and tho 
poor, puerile conceits arising from them, beautiful and 



188 THE MOnAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

sublime. This results from the frame and temperament 
of the mind, and is a general characteristic of the Span- 
ish poets, not only in this department of song, but in all 
others. The very ardor of ihiagination which, exercised 
upon minor themes, leads them into extravagance and 
hyperbole, when left to act in a higher and wider sphere 
conducts them nearer and nearer to perfection. When 
imagination spreads its wings in the bright regions of 
devotional song, — in the pure empyrean, — judgment 
should direct its course, but there is no danger of it soar- 
ing too high. The heavenly land still lies beyond its ut- 
most flight. There are heights it cannot reach ; there 
are fields of air which tire its wing ; there is a splendor 
which dazzles its vision ; — for there is a glory "which eye 
hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into 
the heart of man to conceive." 

But perhaps the greatest charm of the devotional poets 
of Spain is their sincerity. Most of them were ecclesias- 
tics, — men who had in sober truth renounced the reali- 
ties of this life for the hopes and promises of another. 
We are not to suppose that all who take holy orders are 
saints ; but we should be still farther from believing that 
all are hypocrites. It would be even more absurd to sup- 
pose that none are sincere in their professions than that 
all are. Besides, with whatever feelings a man may enter 
the monastic life, there is something in its discipline and 
privations which has a tendency to wean the mind from 
earth, and to fix it upon heaven. Doubtless many have 
seemingly renounced the world from motives of worldly 
aggrandizement ; and others have renounced it because it 
has renounced them. The former have carried with 
them to the cloister their earthly ambition, and the latter 
their dark misanthropy ; and though many have dail5 



POETRY OF SPAIN. 189 

kissed the cross and yet grown hoary in iniquity, and 
shrived their souls that they might sin more gayly on, — • 
yet solitude works miracles in the heart, and many wlie 
enter the cloister from worldly motives find it a school 
wherein the soul may be trained to more holy purposes 
and desires. There is not half the corruption and hypoc- 
risy within the convent's walls that the church bears the 
shame of hiding in its bosom. Hermits may be holy 
men, though knaves have sometimes been hermits. Were 
they all hypocrites, who of old for their souls' sake ex- 
posed their naked bodies to the burning sun of Syria ? 
Were they, who wandered houseless in the solitudes of 
Engaddi ? Were they who dwelt beneath the palm-trees 
by the Eed Sea ? no ! They were ignorant, they 
were deluded, they were fanatic, but they were not hypo- 
crites ; if there be any sincerity in human professions 
and human actions, they were not hypocrites. During 
the Middle Ages, there was corruption in the Church, — 
foul, shameful conniption ; and now also hypocrisy may 
scourge itself in feigned repentance, and ambition hide 
its face beneath a hood ; yet all is not therefore rotten- 
ness that wears a cowl. Many a pure spirit, through 
heavenly-mindedness, and an ardent though mistaken 
zeal, has fled from the the temptations of the world to 
seek in solitude and self-communion a closer walk with 
God. And not in vain. They have found the peace they 
sought. They have felt, indeed, what many profess to 
feel, but do not feel, — that they are strangers and so- 
journers here, travellers who are bound for their home 
in a far country. It is this feeling which I speak of as 
giving a peculiar charm to the devotional poetry of Spain. 
Compare its spirit with the spirit which its authors have 
exhibited in their lives. They speak of having given up 



190 THE MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

the world, and it is no poetical hyperbole ; they speak of 
longing to be free from the weakness of the flesh, that 
they may commence their conversation in heaven, — and 
we feel that they had already begun it in lives of peni- 
tence, meditation, and prayer. 

With regard to the moral poetry of Spain, I need not 
be prolix in my remarks. In common with the devo- 
tional, it possesses the glow and fervour of Spanish feel- 
ing, and so far exhibits the national character. At the 
same time, as I have already had occasion to observe, the 
principles of Christian morality being everywhere the same 
throughout Christendom, moral poetry must everywhere 
display to a great extent a common and homogeneous 
character. The only variety it exhibits will be found, I 
apprehend, to consist, not in the general tenor of the 
thought, but in the tone of feeling and consequent warmth 
of language in which the thought is expressed. In all 
Christian countries, the prevailing thought is the perish- 
able nature of earthly possessions, and that kind of con- 
templative and philosophic content so well expressed by 
Francisco de Rioja, in one of his moral epistles — a little 
nook among my household gods, a book and friend, and 
light slumbers, that neither cares nor creditors disturb — . 
these are enough for me : — 

Un angulo me basta entre mis lares, 
Un libro y un amigo un sueSo breve 
Que no perturben deudas ni pesares. 

I shall not, therefore, attempt to show wherein the 
moral poetry of Spain exhibits the lights and shades of 
national character ; but shall close my essay here, in ordef 
to give place to one of the most beautiful poems of which 
Spanish literature can boast. 



POETRY OF SPAIN, 191 

Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, 
flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. It is 
a remarkable fact, that nearly all the Spanish poets of any 
eminence have been soldiers ; and that most of them have 
died either upon the field of battle or in the cloister. 
Jorge Manrique followed the profession of arms, and 
fought beneath his father's banner. He died on the field 
of battle. Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes hon- 
orable mention of him, as being present at the siege of 
XJcles ; and speaks of him as ^^ a youth of estimable quali- 
ties, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour. 
He died young ; and was thus cut off from exercising and 
exhibiting to the world his many virtues, and the light of 
his genius, which was already known to fame." He was 
mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cafiavete, in the 
year 1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, 
Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known 
in Spanish history and song. He died in 1 476 ; accord- 
ing to Mariana, in the town of Ucles ; but according to the 
poem of his son, in Ocana. It was his death that called 
forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation 
of the younger Manrique. In the language of his his- 
torian, ^' Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant ode, full of 
poetic beauties, and the rich embellishments of genius 
and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father 
as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. 
The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn 
and beautiful ; and in accordance with it, the style moves 
on — calm, dignified, and majestic. 



193 THE U9PvAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

COPLAS DE DON JORGE MANRIQUE. 

STANZAS 

G03IPOS5D CY DON JORGE MANKIQUE ON THE DEATH OP HIS FATHHR 
DON RODKIGO. 



LET the soul her slumbers break, 
Let thought be quickened, and awake. 

Awake to see 
How soon this life is past and gone. 
And death comes softly stealing on, 

How silently 1 
Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
Our hearts recall the distant day 

With many sighs ; 
The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past — the past — 

More highly prize. 

IT. 

Onward its course the present keeps,— 
Onward the constant current sweeps. 

Till life is done ; — 
And did we judge of time aright, 
The past and future in their flight 

Would be as one. 
Let no one fondly dream again 
That Hope and all her shadowy train 

Will not decay ; 
Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Kemembered like a tale that's told, 

They pass away. 

III. 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea. 
The silent grave ! 



POETRY OF SPAIN. 19| 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 

In one dark wave. ,q,^^ £,., 
Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
Thither the brook pursues its way, 

And tinkling rill ; — .; , 

There all are equal. Side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 

Lie calm and still. 



IV. - ' 

■ 1 
i > 

I will not here invoke the throng 
Of orators and sons of song, 

The deathless few; 
Fiction entices and deceives, , 

And. sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves. 

Lies poisonous dew. 
To One alone my thoughts arise, 
The Eternal Tmith,— the Good and Wise, 

To Him I cry, 
^ Who shared on earth our common lot, j^; 
' But the world comprehended not 

His deity. 



V. 

This world is but the rugged road 
Which leads us to the bright abode 

Of peace above ; 
So let us choose that narrow way '"OT II^T 
Which leads no traveller's foot astray 

From realms of love. 
Our cradle is the starting place. 
In life we run the onward race, 

And reach the goal, 
When in the mansions of the blest 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 

The weary souL 
1.^ 



194 THE MORAL AlfD DMVOTIOWAL 

TI. 

Did we but use it as we ought. 

This world would school each wandering thought 

To its high state. 
Faith wings the soul beyond the sky. 
Up to that better world on high. 

For which we wait. 
Yes — the glad messenger of love. 
To guide us to our home above 

The Saviour camo ; 
Born amid mortal cares and fears> 
He suffered in this vale of tears 

A death of shame. 

Behold of what delusive worth 
The bubbles we pursue on earth. 

The shapes we chase 
Amid a world of treachery I 
iThey vanish ere death shuts the eye. 

And leave no trace ; 
Tiihe steals them &om us, — chances strangle 
DLsastrous accident, — and change 

That comes to all ; — 
Even in the most exalted state 
Efilentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 

The strongest falL 

Tm. 

Tell me-^the charms that lovers seek. 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek. 

The hues that play 
O'er rosy lips and brow of snow, — 
When hoary age approaches slow. 

Ah, where are they ? 
The cunning skill, the curious arts, 
The glorious strength that youth imparts 

In life's first stage ; — 



POETR Y OF SPAm. 19§ 

These shall become a hea\y weight 
When Time swings wide his outward gs&d 
To weary age. 

IX. 

The noble blood of Gothic name 
Heroes emblazoned high to fame 

In long array ; 
How, in the onward course of time 
The landmarks of that race sublim© 

Were swept away ! 
Some, the degraded slaves of lust. 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust. 

Shall rise no more ; 
Others by guilt and crime maintain 
The escutcheon that, without a stain. 

Their fathers bore. 



Wealth and the high estates of pride. 
With what untimely speed they glide. 

How soon depart ! 
Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay. 
The vassals of a mistress they 

Of fickle heart. 
These gifts in fortime's hand are found % 
Her swift-revolving wheel turns round. 

And they are gone I 
No rest the inconstant goddess knowa, 
But changing, and without repose. 

Still hurries on. 

XI. 

Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded baubles till the grave 

Reclaimed its prey ; 
Let none on such poor hopes rely. 
Life like an empty dream flits by. 

And where are they ? 



196 THE MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 

Are passions springing from the dust,— 

They fade and die ; 
But in the life beyond the tomb 
They seal the immortal spirit's doom 

Eternally ! 

XII, 

The treasures and delights which mask 
In treacherous smiles life's serious task. 

What are they all 
But the fleet couriers of the chase, 
And death an ambush in the race 

In which we fall ? 
No foe, no dangerous pass we heed, 
Brook no delay — but onward speed 

With loosened rein ; 
And when the fatal snare is near, 
We strive to check our mad career. 

But strive in vain. 

^in. 

Could we new charms to age impart. 
And fashion with a cunning art 

The human face, ' ^ihyll IC^ 
As we can clothe the soul with light, '--^ 
And make the glorious spirit bright 1 1 

With heavenly grace, — 
How busily eacli passing hour 
Should we exert that magic power I 

What ardour show, 
To deck the sensual slave of sin. 
Yet leave the f reeborn soul within 

In weeds of woe ! 

XIV. 

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong. 
Famous in history and in song 
Of olden time. 



:V i POETR T OF SPAIN. 19^ 

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 

Their race sublime. 
Who is the champion? who the strong? 
Pontiff and priest, and sceptered throng? 

On these shall fall 
As heavily the hand of death, 
As when it stays the shepherd's breath 
Beside his stall. 



XV. 

I speak not of the Trojan name. 
Neither its glory nor its shame 

Has met our eyes ; 
Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, 
Though we have heard so oft and read 

Their histories. 
Little avails it now to know 
Of ages past so long ago, 

Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday. 
Which to oblivion sweeps away 
' Like days of old. 



Where is the King Don Juan ? Where 
Each royal prince and noble heir 

Of Arragon ? 
Where are the courtly gallantries ? 
The deeds of love and high emprise 

In battle done ? 
Tournay and joust, that charm the eye. 
And scarf and gorgeous panoply, 

And nodding plume ; 
What were they but a pageant scene ? 
What but the garlands gay and green 

That deck the tomb ? 



198 THE MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

xm. 

"Where are the high-born dames, and where 
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 

And odours sweet ? 
"Where are the gentle knights, that came 
To kneel and breathe love's ardent flame 

Low at their feet ? 
"Where is the song of Troubadour ; 
"Where are the lute and gay tambour 

They loved of yore ? 
"Where is the mazy dance of old, 
The flowing robes, inwrought with gold. 

The dancei-s wore ? 

xvm. 

And he who next the sceptre swayed, 
Henry, whose royal court displayed 

Such power and pride ; j. &i jjiJ. 
0, in what winning smiles arrayed, 
The world its various pleasures laid 

His throne beside ! 
But oh I how false and full of guile, 
That world, which wore so soft a smile 

But to betray ! 
She that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 

Her charms away. . , ^^ 

XIX. 

The countless gifts. — the stately walk^--^ 
The royal palaces and halls [T 

All filled with gold ; 
Plate with armorial bearings wroughtj T 
Chambers with ample treasures fraught 

Of wealth untold ; 
The noble steeds, and harness bright, 
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight 

In rich array, — 



POETRY OF SFALN. 199 

Where shall we seek them now ? Alas I 
Like the bright dew-drops on the grass 
They passed away. 

XX. 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 

Unskilled to reign ; 
"V\Tiat a gay, brilliant court had he. 
When all the flower of chivalry 

Was in his train ! 
But he was mortal ; and the breath 
That flamed from the hot forge of death 

Blasted his years ; 
Eternal providence ! by thee 
The flame of earthly majesty 

Was quenched in tears I 

XXI. 

Spain's haughty Constable, — the great 
And gallant Master,— cruel fate 

Stripped him of all. 
Breathe not a whisper of his pride, ^ 
He on the gloomy scaffold died. 

Ignoble fall. 
The countless treasures of his care 
Hamlets and villas green and fair, 

His mighty power, — 
What were they all but grief and shame. 
Tears and a broken heart, — when cam« 

The parting hour ! 

xxn, 

fiis other brothers proud and high, 
Masters, who in prosperity 

Might rival kings ; 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest 

Their underlings ; 



260 THE MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

What was their prosperous estate, 
When high exalted and elate 

With power and pride ? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, which, glaring at its height,., , 

Grew dim and died 1 ' ; 

xxm. 

So many a duke of royal name, 
Marquis and count of spotless fame, " 

And baron brave, 
That might the sword of empire wield- 
All these, Death, hast thou concealed 

In the dark grave ! 
Their deeds of mercy and of arms 
In peaceful days, or war's alarms, 

When thou dost show, 
O Death, thy stern and angry face, 
One stroke of thy all powerful mace 

Can overthrow. 

xxrv. 

Unnumbered hosts that threaten nigh, ' 
Pennon and standard flaunting high, 

And flag displayed ; 
High battlements entrenched around, 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound. 

And palisade. 
And covered trench, secure and deep,— 
All these cannot one victim keep, 

Death, from thee ; 
When thou dost battle in thy wrath, 
And thy strong shafts pursue their path 

Unerringly. 

XXV. 

world ! so few the years we live. 
Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were life indeed I'**"^ *"*■ 



POETR T OF SPAIN, 201 

But oh, thy sorrows fall so fast, 
Our happiest hour is when at last 

The soul is freed. 
Our days are covered o'er with grief. 
And sorrows neither fewn or brief. 

Vail all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good, 
Within this cheerless solitude 

No pleasures bloom. 

XXVI. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 

Or dark despair ; * 

Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest here 

Knows most of care. 
Thy goods are bought with many a groan. 
By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts. 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe. 
But with a lingering step and slow. 

Its form departs. 



xxvn. 

And he, the good man's shield and shade. 
To whom all hearts their homage paid, 

As Virtue's son, — 
Roderick Manrique, — he whose name 
Is written on the scroll of fame 

Spain's Champion : 
His signal deeds and prowess high 
Demands no pompous eulogy,— 

Ye saw his deeds I 
Why should their praise in verse be sung f 
The name that dwells on every tongue 

No minstrel needs. 



iO% TUB MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

xxvni. 

To friends a friend ; — how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 

And feudal fief I 
To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
And to the valiant and the free 
y How brave a chief I 

What prudence with the old and wise ; 
"What grace in useful gayeties ; 

In all how sage I 
Benignant to the serf and slave, 
He showed the base and falsely brave 

A lion's rage. 
% 

XXIX. 

His was Octavian's prosperous star, 
The rush of Caesar's conquering car 

At battle's call. 
His Scipio's virtue ; his the skill 
And the indomitable will 

Of Hannibal. 
His was a Trojan's goodness, — his 
A Titus' noble charities 

And righteous laws : 
His the Archaean's arm ; the might 
Of Tully to maintain the right 

In truth's just cause. 

XXX. 

The clemency of Antonine, 
, Aurelius' countenance divine. 

Firm, gentle, still ; 
The eloquence of Adrian, 
And Theodosius' love to man, 

And generous will. 
In tented field and bloody fray, 
An Alexander's vigorous sway. 

And stern command ; 



.\. • .K^^POETB T OF BPAIN, 203 

The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, 
The fervent love Camillus bore 
His native land. 

XXXI. 

He left no well-filled treasury,— 
He heaped no pile of riches high, 

No massive plate ; 
He fought the Moors ; and in their fall. 
Villa, and tower, and casteled wall 

Were his estate. 
Upon the hard fought battle-ground. 
Brave steeds and gallant riders found 

A common grave ; 
And there the warrior's hand did gain. 
The rents and the long vassal train 

The conquered gave. 

xxxn. 
And if of old his halls displayed 
The honored and exalted grade 

His worth had gained, 
So in the dark disastrous hour, 
Brothers and bondmen of his power 

His rank sustained. 
After high deeds, not left untold. 
In the stern warfare, which of old 

'Twas his to share. 
Such noble leagues he made — that more 
And fairer regions than before, 

His guerdon were. 

xxxm. 

These are the records, half effaced, 
"Which with the hand of youth he traced 

On history's page ; 
But with fresh victories he drew 
Each fading character anew. 

In his old age. , • 



204 THE MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

By his unrivalled skill, — by great 
And veteran service to the State, 

By worth adored ; 
He stood in his high dignity 
The proudest knight of chivalry, 

Knight of the sword. 

XXXIV. 

He found his villas and domains 
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains, ' • - • 

And cruel power ; '^ 

But, by fierce battle and blockade, J 

Soon his own banner was displayed 

From every tower. 
By the tried valour of his hand 
His monarch and his native land 

Were nobly served : 
Let Portugal repeat the story. 
And proud Castile, who shared the glory 

His arms deserved. 

XXXV. 

And when so oft for weal or woe ; '^^ 

His life upon one fatal throw 8^9il:foia 

Had been laid down, -^f 

When he had served with patriot zeal, 
Beneath the banner of Castile, 

His sovereign's ci*own, 
And done such deeds of valour strong 
That neither history nor song '^ 

Can count them all. 
Then to Ocana's castled rock. 
Death at his portal comes to knock. 

With sudden call,— ^'^^ s^arfT 

XXXVI. 

Saying, " Grood cavalier, prepare 
To leave this world of toil and care 
With joyful mien ; 



POETRY OF SPAm. 205 

Let thy strong heart of steel this day 
Put on its armour for the fray,— 

The closing scene. .j. 

Since thou hast been in battle strife 
So prodigal of health and life 

For earthly fame, 
Let virtue nerve thy heart again, 
Which on the last stern battle plain 

Repeats thy name. 

xxxvn. 

■ IT 
«* Think not the struggle that draws neat 

Too terrible for man,— nor fear 

To meet the foe ; 
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 
Its Ufe of glorious fame to leave 

On earth below. 
A life of honor and of worth 
Has no eternity on earth, — 

'Tis but a name .! 
And yet its glory far exceeds 
That base and sensual life which leadr' J; 

To want and shame. '/"" 

« The eternal life beyond the sky 
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 

And proud estate : 
The soul in dalliance laid,— the spirit 
Corrupt with sin shall not inherit 

A joy so great. 
But the good monk in cloistered cell 
Shall gain it by his book and bell, 

His prayers and tears ; 
And the brave knight, whose arm endiDfea 
Fierce battle, and against the Moors 

His standard rears. 



^06 THE MORAL AND DEVOTIONAL 

xxxrx, 

*' And thou, brave Imight whose hand has poured 
The life blood of the Pagan horde 

O'er all the -land. 
In heaven shalt thou receive at length 
The guerdon of thine earthly strength 

And dauntless hand. 
Cheered onward by this promise sure. 
Strong in the faith, entire and pure 

Thou dost profess ; 
Depart, — thy hope is certainty, — 
The third — the better life on high 

Shalt thou possess. 

XL. 

* death, no more, no more delay ; 
My spirit longs to flee away. 

And be at rest. 
The will of heaven my will shall be ; 
I bow to the divine decree. 

To God's behest. 
My soul is ready to depart. 
No thought rebels, the obedient heart 

Breathes forth no sigh ; 
The wish on earth to linger still 
"Were vain, when 'tis God's sovereign will 

That. we shall die. 

XLI. 

** Thou, that for our sins didst take 
A human form and humbly make 

Thy home on earth ; 
Thou, that to thy diyinity 
A human nature didst ally 

By mortal birth, — 
And in that form didst suffer here^ 
Torment, and agony, and fear. 

So patiently ; 



POETRY OF SPAim 207 

By thy redeeming grace alone. 
And not for merits of my own, 
pardon me 1 " 

XLH. 

As thus the dying warrior prayed 
Without one gathering mist or shade 

Upon his mind ; 
Encircled by his family, 
Watched by affection's gentle eye. 

So soft and kind — 
His soul to Him who gave it rose ; — 
God lead it to its long repose, 

Its glorious rest I 
And though the warrior's sun has snt, 
It« light shall linger round us yet, 

Bright, radiant, blest. 



^Oi;; 



THE PILGRIM'S BREVIARY. 

" If thou vouchsafe to read this treatise, it shall seem no otherwise to the« 
than the way to an ordinary traveller,— sometimes fair, sometimes foul ; here 
champaign, there enclosed ; barren in one place, better eoyle in another ; by 
woods, groves, hills, dales, plains, I shall lead thee." 

Bubton's Anatomie of Melancholt. 

Iirop aiii 

THE glittering spires and cupolas of Madrid have sunk 
behind me. Again and again I have turned to take 
a parting look, till at length the last trace of the city has 
disappeared, and I gaze only upon the sky above it. 

And now the sultry day is passed ; the freshening twi- 
light falls, and the moon and the evening star are in the 
sky. This river is the Zarama. This noble avenue of 
trees leads to Aranjuez. Already its lamps begin to 
twinkle in the distance. The hoofs of our weary mules 
clatter upon the wooden bridge ; the public square opens 
before us ; yonder, in the moonlight, gleam the walls of 
the royal palace, and near it, with a rushing sound, fall 
the waters of the Tagus. 



We have now entered the vast and melancholy plains 
of La Mancha, — a land to which the genius of Cervantes 
has given a vulgo-classic fame. Here are the windmills, 
as of old ; every village has its Master Nicholas, — every 
venta its Maritornes. Wondrous strong are the spells of 
fiction ! A few years pass away, and history becomes ro- 
mance, and romance, history. To the peasantry of Spain^ 
^08 



THE PILGRIM'S BREVIARY. . 209 

Don Quixote and his squire are historic personages. They 
believe that such characters once existed ; and woe betide 
the luckless wight who unwarily takes the name of Dul- 
cinea upon his lips within a league of El Toboso ! The 
traveller, too, yields himself to the delusion ; and as he 
traverses the arid plains of La Mancha, pauses with will- 
ing credulity to trace the footsteps of the mad Hidalgo, 
with his '^velvet breeches on a holiday, and slippers of 
the same." The high-road from Aranjuez to Cordova 
crosses and recrosses the knight-errant's path. Between 
Manzanares and Valdepeiias stands the inn where he was 
dubbed a knight ; to the westward lies the scene of his 
tournament with the barber ; to the southward the Yenta 
de Cardinas, where he met Maritornes and the Princess 
Micomicona,' — and just beyond rises the Sierra Morena, 
where he did penance, like the knights of olden time.v 

For my own part I confess that there are seasons when 
I am willing to be the dupe of my own imagination ; and 
if this harmless folly but lends its wings to a dull-paced 
hour, I am even ready to believe a fairy tale. 



Ok the fourth day of our journey we dined at Manza- 
nares, in an old and sombre-looking inn, which, I think, 
some centuries back, must have been the dwelling of a 
grandee. A wide gateway admitted us into the inn-yard, 
which was a paved court, in the centre of the edifice, sur- 
rounded by a colonnade, and open to the sky above. Be- 
neath this colonnade we were shaved by the village barber, 
a supple, smooth-faced Figaro, with a brazen laver and a 
gray montera cap. There, too, we dined in the open air, 
with bread as white as snow, and the rich, red wine of 
14 



210 THE PILORIM'8 BREVIARY, 

Valdepenas ; and there, in the listlessness of after-dinner, 
smoked the sleep-inviting cigar, while in the court-yard 
before us the muleteers danced a fandango with the maids 
of the inn, to the loud music which three blind musicians 
drew from a violin, a guitar, and a clarionet. When this 
scene was over, and the blind men had groped their way 
out of the yard, I fell into a delicious slumber, from 
which I was soon awakened by music of another kind. It 
was a clear, youthful voice, singing a national song to 
the sound of a guitar. I opened my eyes, and near me 
stood a tall, graceful figure, leaning against one of the 
pillars of the colonnade, in the attitude of a serenader. 
His dress was that of a Spanish student. He wore a 
black gown and cassock, a pair of shoes made of an 
ex-pair of boots, and a hat in the shape of a half-moon, 
with the handle of a wooden spoon sticking out on one 
side like a cockade. When he had finished his song, we 
invited him to the remnant of a Vich sausage, a bottle of 
Valdepenas, bread at his own discretion, and a pure 
Havana cigar. The stranger made a leg, and accepted 
these signs of good company with the easy air of a man who 
is accustomed to earn his livelihood by hook or by crook ; 
and as the wine was of that stark and generous kind which 
readily " ascends one into the brain," our gentleman with 
the half -moon hat grew garrulous and full of anecdote, 
and soon told us his own story, beginning with his birth 
and parentage, like the people in Gil Bias. 

*'I am the son of a barber," quoth he ; " and first saw 
the light some twenty years ago, in the great city of Ma- 
drid. At a very early age, I was taught to do something 
for myself, and began my career of gain by carrying a 
slow-match in the Prado, for the gentlemen to light their 
cigars with, and catching the wax that dropped from the 



TEE PILGRIM' 8 BREVIARY, 211 

friars' tapers at funerals and other religious proces- 
sions. 

** At school I was noisy and unruly ; and was finally 
expelled for hooking the master's son with a pair of ox- 
horns, which I had tied to my head, in order to personate 
the bull in a mock bull-fight. Soon after this my father 
died, and I went to live with my maternal uncle, a curate 
in Fuencarral. He was a man of learning, and resolved 
that I should be like him. He set his heart upon making 
a physician of me ; and to this end taught me Latin and 
Greek. 

"In due time I was sent to the University of Alcala. 
Here a new world opened before me. What novelty, — 
what variety, -^ what excitement ! But, alas ! three 
months were hardly gone, when news came that my 
worthy uncle had passed to a better world. I was now 
left to shift for myself. I was penniless, and lived as I 
could, not as I would. I became a sopista, a soup-eater, 
: — a knight of the wooden spoon. I see you do not un- 
derstand me. In other words, then, I became one of that 
respectable body of charity scholars who go armed with 
their wooden spoons to eat the allowance of eleemosynary 
soup which is daily served out to them at the gate of the 
convents. I had no longer house nor home. But neces- 
sity is the mother of invention. I became a hanger-on of 
those who were more fortunate than myself; studied in 
other people's books, slept in other people's beds, and 
breakfasted at other people's expense. This course of life 
has been demoralizing, but it has quickened my wits to a 
wonderful degree. 

** Did you ever read the life of Glran Tacaiio, by Que- 
vedo ? In the first book you have a faithful picture of 
■life in a Spanish University. What was true in his day is 



212 THE PimniM'8 BREVIABT. 

true in ours. Oh, Alcala ! Alcala I if your walls had 
tongues as well as ears, what tales could they repeat ! 
what midnight frolics ! what madcap revelries ! what 
scenes of merriment and mischief ! How merry is a stu- 
dent's life, and yet how changeable ! Alternate feasting 
and fasting, — alternate Lent and Carnival, — alternate 
want and extravagance ! Care given to the winds, — no 
thought beyond the passing hour ; yesterday, f orgotten> 
— to-morrow, a word in an unknown tongue ! 

"Did you ever hear of raising the dead ? not literally^ 
— but such as the student raised, when he dug for the 
soul of the licentiate Pedro Garcias, at the fountain be- 
tween Penafiel and Salamanca, — money? No ? Well, it 
is done after this wise. Gambling, you know, is our great 
national vice ; and then gamblers are so dishonest ! Now, 
our game is to cheat the cheater. We go at night to 
some noted gaming-house, — five or six of us in a body. 
We stand around the table, watch those that are at play, 
and occasionally put in a trifle ourselves to avoid suspicion. 
At length the favorable moment arrives. Some eager 
player ventures a large stake. I stand behind his chair. 
He wins. As quick as thought, I stretch my arm over 
his shoulder and seize the glittering prize, saying very 
coolly, ^I have won at last.' My gentleman turns round 
in a passion, and I meet his indignant glance with a look 
of surprise. He storms, and I expostulate ; he menaces, 
— I heed his menaces no more than the buzzing of a fly 
that has burnt his wings in my lamp. He calls the whole 
table to witness ; but the whole table is busy, each with 
his own gain or loss, and there stand my comrades, all 
loudly asserting that the stake was mine. What can he 
do ? there was a mistake ; he swallows the affront as best 
he may, and we bear away the booty. This we call rais- 



THE PILGRIM' 8 BREVIARY. 213 

ing the dead. You say it is disgraceful, — dishonest. Our 
maxim is, that all is fair among sharpers ; Baylar al son 
que se toca, — dance to any tune that is fiddled. Besides, 
as I said before, poverty is demoralizing. One loses the 
nice distinctions of right and wrong, of meiim and tuum. 

''Thus merrily pass the hours of term-time. When 
the summer vacations come round, I sling my guitar over 
my shoulder, and with a light heart, and a lighter pocket, 
scour the country, like a strolling piper or a mendicant 
friar. Like the industrious ant, in summer I provide for 
winter ; for in vacation we have time for reflection, and 
make the great discovery, that there is a portion of time 
called the future. I pick up a trifle here and a trifle 
there, in all the towns and villages through which I pass, 
and before the end of my tour I find myself quite rich — 
for the son of a barber. This we call the vida tiinantesca^ — 
a rag-tag-and-bobtail sort of life. And yet the vocation 
is as honest as that of a begging Franciscan. Why not ? 

''And now, gentlemen, having dined at your expense, 
with your leave I will put thi** loaf of bread and the 
remains of this excellent Vich sausage into my pocket, 
and, thanking you for your kind hospitality, bid you a 
good afternoon. God be with you, gentlemen ! " 



IiT general, the aspect of La Mar^o.Ka is desolate and 
sad. Around you lies a parched an(? sunburnt plain, 
which, like fche ocean, has no limits bj't the sky ; and 
straight before you, for many a weary league- runs the dusty 
and level road, without the shade of a single tree. The 
villages you pass through are poverty-stricken and half- 
depopulated ; and the squalid inhabitants weau.' a look of 
misery that makes the heart ache. Every league or two. 



214 THE PILGRIM'S BREVIARY. 

the ruins of a post-house, or a roofless cottage with shat- 
tered windows and blackened walls, tells a sad tale of the 
last war. It was there that a little band of peasantry made 
a desperate stand against the French, and perished by the 
bullet, the sword, or the bayonet. The lapse of many 
years has not changed the scene, nor repaired the battered 
wall ; and at almost every step the traveller may pause 
and exclaim : — 

*' Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host ; 
Here the bold peasant stormed the dragon's nest." 

From Valdepenas southward the country wears a more 
lively and picturesque aspect. The landscape breaks into 
hill and valley, covered with vineyards and olive-fields ; 
and before you rise the dark ridges of the Sierra Morena, 
lifting their sullen fronts into a heaven all gladness and 
sunshine. Ere long you enter the wild mountain-pass of 
Despena-Perros. A sudden turn in the road brings you 
to a stone column, surmounted by an iron crpss, marking 
the boundary line between La Mancha and Andalusia. 
Upon one side of this column is caiwed a sorry-looking 
face, not unlike the death's-heads which grin at you from 
the tombstones of a country church-yard. Over it is 
written this inscription : ^' El Vekdadero Eetrato de 
LA SANTA CAEA DEL Dios DE Xaen"," — The true portrait 
of the holy countenance of the Grod of Xaen ! I was so 
much struck with this strange superscription that I 
stopped to copy it. 

" Do you really believe that this is what it pretends to 
be?" said I to a muleteer, who was watching my move- 
ments. 

*'I don't know," replied he, shrugging his brawny 
shoulders ; '^ they say it is." 



THE PILOBIM'S BREVIARY. 215 

*' Who says it is ? '* 

"The priest, — the Padre Cura." 

*^ I supposed so. And how was* this portrait taken ? " 

He could not tell. The Padre Cura knew all about it. 

When I joined my companions, who were a little in 
advance of me with the carriage, I got the mystery 
explained. The Catholic Church boasts of three portraits 
of our Saviour, miraculously preserved upon the folds of 
a handkerchief, with which he wiped the sweat from his 
brow, on the day of the crucifixion. One of these is at 
Toledo, another in the kingdom of Xaen. I have forgot- 
ten at what place the third is preserved. 

Is this, indeed, the nineteenth century ? 



The impression which this monument of superstition 
made upon my mind was soon effaced by the magnificent 
scene which now burst upon me. The road winds up 
the mountain-side with gradual ascent ; wild, shapeless, 
gigantic crags overhang it upon the right, and upon the 
left the wary foot starts back from the brink of a fearful 
chasm hundreds of feet in depth. Its sides are black with 
ragged pines, and rocks that have toppled down from 
above ; and at the bottom, scarcely visible wind the sil- 
very waters of a little stream, a tributary of the Guadal- 
quivir. The road skirts the ravine for miles, — now climb- 
ing the barren rock, and now sliding gently downward 
into shadowy hollows, and crossing some rustic bridge 
thrown over a wild mountain-brook. 

At length the scene changed. We stood upon the 
southern slope of the Sierra, and looked down upon the 
broad, luxuriant valleys of Andalusia, batlied in the gor- 
geous splendor of a southern sunset. The landscape had 



216 THE PILGRIM' 8 BREVIARY. 

already assumed the '* burnished livery "of aurumn ; but 
the air I breathed was the soft and balmy breath of spring, 
— ^the eternal spring of. Andalusia. 

If ever you should be fortunate enough to visit this part 
of Spain stop for the night at the village of La Carolina. 
It is indeed a model for all villages, — with its broad 
streets, its neat white houses, its spacious market-place 
surrounded with a colonnade, and its public walk orna^ 
mented with fountains and set out with luxuriant trees. 
I doubt whether all Spain can show a village more beau- 
tiful than this. 



The approach to Cordova from the east is enchanting. 
The sun was just rising as we crossed the Guadalquivir 
and drew near to the city ; and, alighting from the car- 
riage, I pursued my way on foot, the better to enjoy the 
scene and the pure morning air. The dew still glistened 
on every leaf and spray ; for the burning sun had not yet 
climbed the tall hedge-row of wild fig-tree and aloes 
which skirts the roadside. The highway wound along 
through gardens, orchards, and vineyards, and here and 
there above me towered the glorious palm in all its leafy 
magnificence. On my right, a swelling mountain-ridge, 
covered with verdure and sprinkled with little white her- 
mitages, looked forth towards the rising sun ; and on the 
left, in a long, graceful curve, swept the bright waters of 
the Guadalquivir, pursuing their silent journey through 
a verdant reach of soft lowland landscape. There, amid 
all the luxuriance of this sunny clime, arises the ancient 
city of Cordova, though stripped, alas ! of its former 
magnificence. All that reminds you of the past is the 
crumbling wall of the city, and a Saracen mosque, now 



THE PILGRIM'S BREVIARY. 217 

changed to a Christian cathedral. The stranger, who is 
familiar with the history of the Moorish dominion in 
Spain, pauses with a sigh, and asks himself, Is this the 
imperial city of Alhakam the Just, and Abdoulrahman 
the Magnificent ? 



This, then, is Seville, that "pleasant city, famous for 
oranges and women." After all I have heard of its beauty, 
I am disappointed in finding it so far less beautiful than 
my imagination had painted it. The wise saw, — 

" Qiiien no ha visto Sevilla, 
No ha visto mara villa," — 

he who has not seen Seville has seen no marvel, — is an 
Andalusian gasconade. Under correction be it said, he 
who has seen Seville has seen no marvel. This, however, 
is the judgment of a traveller weary and wayworn with a 
journey of twelve successive days in a carriage drawn by 
mules ; and I am well aware how much our opinions of 
men and things are colored by these trivial ills. A sad 
spirit is like a rainy day ; its mists and shadows darken 
the brightest sky, and clothe the fairest landscape in 
gloom. 

I am, too, a disappointed man in another respect. I 
have come all the way from Madrid to Seville without 
being robbed ! And this, too, when I journeyed at a 
snail's pace, and had bought a watch large enough for 
the clock of a village church, for the express purpose of 
having it violently torn from me by a fierce-whiskered 
highwayman, with his blunderbuss and his " Boca ahajo, 
ladrones ! " If I print this in a book, I am undone. 
What ! travel in Spain and not be robbed ! To be sure, 



218 THE FILGMIM'S BREVIARY. 

I came very near it more than once. Almost every vil- 
lage we passed through had its tale to tell of atrocities 
committed in the neighborhood. In one place, the stage- 
coach had been stopped and plundered ; in another, a 
man had been murdered and thrown into the river ; here 
and there a rude wooden cross and a shapeless pile of 
stones marked the spot where some unwary traveller had 
met his fate ; and at night, seated around the blazing 
hearth of the inn-kitchen, my fellow-traveller would con- 
verse in a mysterious undertone of the dangers we were 
to pass through on the morrow. But the morrow came 
and went, and, alas ! neither salteador, nor ratero moved 
a finger. At one place, we were a day too late ; at an- 
other, a day too early. 

I am now at the Fonda de los Americanos. My cham- 
ber-door opens upon a gallery, beneath which is a little 
court paved with marble, having a fountain in the centre. 
As I write, I can just distinguish the tinkling of its tiny 
jet, falling into the circular basin with a murmur so gen- 
tle that it scarcely breaks the silence of the night. At 
day-dawn I start for Cadiz, promising myself a pleasant 
sail down the Guadalquivir. All I shall be able to say of 
Seville is what I have written above, — that it is " a pleas- 
ant city, famous for oranges and women." 



I AM at length in Cadiz. I came across the bay yes- 
terday morning in an open boat from Santa Maria, and 
have established myself in very pleasant rooms, which 
look out upon the Plaza de San Antonio, the public 
square of the city. The morning sun awakes me, and at 
evening the sea-breeze comes in at my window. At night 
the square is lighted by lamps suspended from the trees, 



THE PILGBIM'8 BBEVIABT. 219 

and thronged with a brilliant crowd of the young and 

gay. 

Cadiz is beautiful beyond imagination. The cities of 
our dreams are not more enchanting. It lies like a 
delicate sea-shell upon the brink of the ocean, so won- 
drous fair that it seems not formed for man. In sooth, 
the Paphian queen born of the feathery sea-foam, dwells 
here. It is the city of beauty and of love. 

The women of Cadiz are world-renowned for their 
loYelincss. Surely earth has none more dazzling than a 
daughter of that bright, burning clime. What a volup- 
tuous form ! what a dainty foot ! what dignity! what 
matchless grace ! 

''What eyes, — what lips, — ^what everything about her I 
How like a swan she swims her pace, and bears 
Her silver breasts ! " 

The Gaditana is not ignorant of her charms. She 
knows full well the necromancy of a smile. You see it 
in the flourish of her fan, — a magic wand, whose spell is 
powerful ; you see it in her steady gaze, the elastic 
step, 

J ** The veil, 

Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand. 
While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 
Flashes into the heart." 

When I am old and gray, and sit by the fireside wrap- 
ped in flannels, if, in a listless moment, recalling what is 
now the present, but will then be the distant and almost 
forgotten past, I turn over the leaves of this journal till 
my watery eye falls upon the page I have just written, I 
shall smile at the enthusiasm with which I have 
sketched this portrait. And where will then be the 



220 THE PILGBUrs BREVIARY. 

bright forms that now glance before me, like the heavenly 
creations of a dream ? All gone, — all gone ! Or, if per- 
chance a few still linger upon earth the silver cord will be 
loosed, — they will be bowed with age. and sorrow, saying 
their paternosters with a tremulous voice. 

Old age is a Pharisee ; for he makes broad his phylac- 
teries, and wears them upon his brow, inscribed with 
prayer, but in the "crooked autograph" of a palsied 
hand. *' I see with, pain," says a French female writer, 
*' that there is nothing durable upon earth. We bring into 
the world a fair face, and lo ! in less than thirty years it 
is covered with wrinkles ; after which a woman is no 
longer good for anything." A most appalling thought ! 

Were I to translate these sombre reflections into choice 
Castilian, and read them to the bright-eyed houri who is 
now leaning over the balcony opposite, she would laugh, 
and laughing say, ** Cuando el demonio es viejo, se mete 
frayley 



The devotion paid at the shrine of the Virgin is one of 
the most prominent and characteristic features of the Cath- 
olic religion. In Spain it is one of its most attractive fea- 
tures. In the southern provinces, in Granada and in 
Andalusia, which the inhabitants call "X« tier r a de 
Maria Santisima" — ^the land of the most holy. Mary, — 
this adoration is most ardent and enthusiastic. There is 
one of its outward observances which struck me as pe- 
culiarly beautiful and impressive. I refer to the Ave 
Maria, an evening service of the Virgin. Just as the 
evening twilight commences, the bell tolls to prayer. In 
a moment, throughout the crowded city, the hum of 
business is hushed, the thronged streets are still ; the 



TEE PILGRIM'S BBEVIARY, 221 

gay multitudes that crowd the public walks stand mo- 
tionless ; the angry dispute ceases ; the laugh of merri- 
ment dies away ; life seems for a moment to be arrested 
in its career, and to stand still. The multitude uncoyei 
their heads, and, with the sign of the cross, whisper their 
evening prayer to the Virgin. Then the bells ring a 
merrier peal; the crowds move again in the streets, and the 
rush and turmoil of business recommence. I have always 
listened with feelings of solemn pleasure to the bell that 
sounded forth the Ave Maria. As it announced the 
close of day, it seemed also to call the soul from its 
worldly occupations to repose and devotion. There is 
something beautiful in thus measuring the march of time. 
The hour, too, naturally brings the heart into unison with 
the feelings and sentiments of devotion. The close of 
the day, the shadows of evening, the calm of twilight, 
inspire a feeling of tranquillity ; and though I may differ 
from the Catholic in regard to the object of his suppli- 
cation, yet it seems to me a beautiful and appropriate 
solemnity, that, at the close of each daily epoch of life, 
— which, if it have not been fruitful in incidents to our- 
selves, has, nevertheless, been so to many of the great 
human family, — the voice of the whole people, and of the 
whole world, should go up to heaven in praise, and sup-^ 
plication, and thankfulness. 



" The Moorish king rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
Woe is me, Alhama !'* 

Thus commences one. of the fine old Spanish ballads, 



222 THE PILGRIM'S BREVIARY. 

commemorating the downfall of the city of Alhama, 
where we have stopped to rest our horses on their fatigu- 
ing march from Velez-Malaga to Granada. Alhama was 
one of the last strongholds of the Moslem power in Spain. 
Its fall opened the way for the Christian army across the 
Sierra Nevada, and spread consternation and despair 
through the city of Granada. The description in the 
old ballad is highly graphic and beautiful ; and its beauty 
is well preserved in the spirited English translation by 
Lord Byron. 



As we crossed the Sierra Nevada, the snowy moun- 
tains that look down upon the luxuriant Vega of Granada, 
we overtook a solitary rider, who was singing a wild na- 
tional song, to cheer the loneliness of his journey. He 
was an athletic man, and rode a spirited horse of the 
Arab breed. A black bearskin jacket covered his broad 
shoulders, and around his waist was wound the crimson 
faja, so universally worn by the Spanish peasantry. His 
velvet breeches reached below his knee, just meeting a 
pair of leather gaiters of elegant workmanship. A gay 
silken handkerchief was tied round his head, and over 
this he wore the little round Andalusian hat, decked out 
with a profusion of tassels of silk and bugles of silver. 
The steed he mounted was dressed no less gayly than his 
rider. There was a silver star upon his forehead, and a 
bright-colored woollen tassel between his ears ; a blanket 
striped with blue and red covered his saddle, and even 
the Moorish stirrups were ornamented with brass studs. . 

This personage was a contrabandist a, — a smuggler be- 
tween Granada and the seaport of Velez-Malaga. The 
song he sung was one of the popular ballads of the 



TEE PILGRIM' 8 BREYIART. 233 

country. I will here transcribe the original as a specimen 
of its kind. Its only merit is simplicity, and a certain 
grace which belongs to its provincial phraseology, and 
which would be wholly lost in,.^,' translation. 

*' Yo que soy contrabandista, 

Y campo por mi respeto, 
A. todos los desafio, 
Porque a naide tengo mieo. 

j Ay, jaieo ! j Muchachas, jaleo I 
I Quien me compra jilo negro ? 

** Mi caballo esta cansao, 

Y yo me mareho corriendo. 
I Anda, caballito mio, 
Caballo mio careto ! 

I Anda, que viene la ronda, 

Y SB mueve el tiroteo I 

I Ay, jaleo ! ; Ay, ay, jaleo I 
\ Ay, jaleo, que nos eortan ! 
Sacame de aqueste aprieto. 

" Mi caballo ya no corre, 
Ya mi caballo paro. 
Todo para en este mundo, 
Tambien he de parar yo. 
\ Ay, jaleo I \ Muchachas, jaleo I 
I Quien me compra jilo negro ? " 

The air to which these words are sung is wild and high ; 
and the prolonged and mournful cadence gives it the 
sound of a funeral wail, or a cry for help. To have its 
full effect upon the mind, it should be heard by night, in 
some wild mountain-pass, and from a distance. Then 
the harsh tones come softened to the ear, and, in unison 
with the hour and the scene, produce a pleasing melan- 
choly. 



224 ^i/^ PILGRIM'S BREVIARY, 

The contrabandista accompanied us to Granada. The 
sun had already set when we entered the Vega, — ^those 
luxuriant meadows which stretch away to the south and 
west of the city, league after league of rich, unbroken 
yerdure. It was Saturday night ; and, as the gathering 
twilight fell around us, and one by one the lamps of the 
city twinkled in the distance, suddenly kindling here and 
there, as the stars start to their places in the evening 
sky, a loud peal of bells rang forth its glad welcome to 
the day of rest, over the meadows to the distant hills, 
'' swinging slow, with solemn roar." 



Is this reality and not a dream ? Am I indeed in 
Granada ? Am I indeed within the walls of that earthly 
paradise of the Moorish kings ? How my spirit is stirred 
within me ! How my heart is lifted up ! How my 
thoughts are rapt away in the visions of other days ! 

Ave, Maria purissimal It is midnight. The bell 
has tolled the hour from the watch-tower of the Alham- 
bra ; and the silent street echoes only to th« watchman's 
cry, Ave, Maria purissima ! I am alone in my cham- 
ber, — sleej)less, — spell-bound by the genius of the place, 
— entranced by the beauty of the star-lit night. As I 
gaze from my window, a sudden radiance brightens in 
the east. It is the moon, rising behind the Alhambra. 
I can faintly discern the dusky and indistinct outline of 
a massive tower, standing amid the uncertain twilight, 
like a gigantic shadow. It changes with the rising moon, 
as a palace in the clouds, and other towers and battle- 
ments arise, — every moment more distinct, more palpable, 
till now they stand between me and the sky, with a sharp 
outline, distant, and yet so near that I seem to sit within 
their shadow. 



THE PILGBUrS BBEVIABT. 325 

"' Majestic spirit of the night, I recognize thee ! The a 
hast conjured up this glorious vision for thy votary. 
Thou hast baptized me with thy baptism. Thou hast 
nourished my soul with fervent thoughts and holy aspira- 
tions, and ardent longings after the beautiful and the 
true. Majestic spirit of the past, I recognize thee ! 
Thou hast bid the shadow go back for me upon the dial- 
plate of time. Thou hast taught me to read in thee the 
present and the future, — a revelation of man's destiny on 
earth. Thou hast taught me to see in thee the principle 
that unfolds itself from century to century in the prog- 
ress of our race, — the germ in whose bosom lie unfolded 
the bud, the leaf, the tree. Generations perish, like the 
leaves of the forest, passing away when their mission is 
completed ; but at each succeeding spring, .broader and 
higher spreads the human mind unto its perfect stature, 
unto the fulfilment of its destiny, unto the perfection of 
its nature. And in these high revelations, thou hast 
taught me more, — thou hast taught mo to feel that I, 
too, weak, humble, and unknown, feeble of purpose and 
irresolute of good, have also .my mission to accomplish 
upon earth, — like the falling leaf, like the passing wind, 
like the drop of rain. glorious thought ! that lifts me 
above the power of time and chance, and tells me that I 
cannot pass away, and leave no mark of my existence. I 
may not know the purpose of my being, — the end for 
which an all-wise Providence created me as I am, and 
placed me where I am ; but I do know — =for in such 
things faith is knowledge — that my being has a purpose 
in the omniscience of my Creator, and that all my actions 
tend to the completion, to the full accomplishment of 
that jmrpose. Is this fatality ? No. I feel that I am 
free, though an infinite and an invisible j^ower overrules 



226 THE PILGRIM'S BBEVIABT. 

me Man proposes, and God disposes. This is one of 
the many mysteries in our being which human reason 
cannot find out by searching. 

Yonder towers, that stand so huge and massive m the 
midnight air, the work of human hands that have long 
since forgotten their cunning in the grave, and once the 
home of human beings immortal as ourselves, a,nd filled 
like us with hopes and feai-s, and powers of good and ill, 
-are lasting memorials of their builders ; inanimate ma- 
terial forms, yet living with the impress of a creative 
mind. These are landmarks of other times. Thus from the 
distant past the history of the human race is telegraphed 
from generation to generation, through the present to all 
succeeding ages. These are manifestations of the human 
mind at a remote period of its historj', and among a peo- 
ple who came from another clime,-the children of the 
desert Their mission is accomplished, and they are 
gone ; yet leaving behind them a thousand records of 
themselves and of their ministry, not as yet fully mani- 
fest, hut " seen through a glass darily," dimly shadowed 
forth in the language, and character, and manners, and 
history of the nation, that was by turns the conquered 
and the conquering. The Goth sat at the Arabs feet; 
and athwart the cloud and storm of war, strea,med the 
light of Oriental learning upon the Western world,— 

" As when the autumnal sun, 
. Through travelling rain and mist. 
Shines on the evening hills." 

This morning I visited the Alhambra; an enchanted 
palace, whose exquisite beauty baliles the power of laiv 



TEE PILGRIM'S BBEVIABT, 227 

guage to describe. Its outlines may be drawn, — ^its balls 
and galleries, its court-yards and its fountains, num- 
bered ; but what skillful limner shall portray in words its 
curious architecture, the grotesque ornaments, the quaint 
devices, the rich tracery of the walls, the ceilings inlaid 
with pearl and tortoise-shell ? what language paint the 
magic hues of light and shade, the shimmer of the sun- 
beam as it falls upon the marble pavement, and the bril- 
liant panels inlaid with many-colored stones ? Vagiie 
recollections fill my mind, — images dazzling but unde- 
fined, like the memory of a gorgeous dream. They 
crowd my brain confusedly, but they will not stay ; they 
change and mingle, like the tremulous sunshine on the 
wave, till imagination itself is dazzled, — bewildered, — 
overpowered ! 

What most arrests the stranger's foot within the Al- 
hambra is the refinement of luxury which he sees at 
every step. He lingers in the deserted bath, — he pauses 
to gaze upon the now vacant saloon, where, stretched 
upon his gilded couch, the effeminate monarch of the 
East was wooed to sleep by softly-breathing music. What 
more delightful than this secluded garden, green with 
the leaf of the myrtle and the orange, and freshened with 
the gush of fountains, beside whose basin the nightingale 
still wooes the blushing rose ? What more fanciful, more 
exquisite, more like a creation of Oriental magic, than 
the lofty tower of the Tocador, — its airy sculpture re- 
sembling the fretwork of wintry frost, and its windows 
overlooking the romantic valley of the Darro ; and the 
city, with its gardens, domes, and spires, far, far below ? 
Cool through this lattice comes the summer wind from 
the icy summits of the Sierra Nevada. Softly m yonder 
fountain falls the crystal water, dripping from its alabas' 



228 THE PILGRIM'8 BREVIARY. 

ter vase with never-ceasing sound. On every side comes 
up the fragrance of a thousand flowers, the murmur of 
innumerable leaves ; and overhead is a sky where not a 
vapor floats, — as soft, and blue, and radiant as the eye of 
childhood ! 

Such is the Alhambra of Granada ; a fortress, — a pal- 
ace, — an earthly paradise, — a ruin, wonderful in its fall- 
en greatness ! 



THE JOUElSrEY OTTO ITALY. 

What J catch is at present only sketch-ways, as it were ; but I prepare myeell 
betimes for the Italian journey. 

Goethe's Faust. 

ON the afternoon of tlie 15t]i of December, in the year 
of grace one thousand eight hundred and twenty- 
seven, I left Marseilles for Genoa, taking the sea-shore 
road through Toulon, Draguignan, and Nice. This jour- 
ney is written in my memory with a sunbeam. We were 
a company whom chance had throT^n together, — different 
in ages, humors, and pursuits, — and yet so merrily the 
days went by, in sunshine, wind or rain, that methinks 
some lucky star must have ruled the hour that brought 
us five so auspiciously together. But where is now that 
merry company ? One sleeps in his youthful grave ; two 
sit in their fatherland, and *^ coin their brain for their 
daily bread"; and the others, — where are they ? If still 
among the living, I beg them to remember in their prayers 
the humble historian of their journey from Marseilles to 
Genoa. 

At Toulon we took a private carriage in order to pur- 
sue our journey more leisurely and more at ease. I well 
remember the strange, outlandish vehicle, and our vettu- 
rino Joseph, with his blouse, his short-stemmed pipe, his 
limping gait, his comical phiz, and the lowland dialect 
his mother taught him at Avignon. Every scene, every 
incident of the journey is now before me as if written in 
a book. The sunny landscapes of the Var, — the peasant 
229 



230 THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY, 

girls, with their broad-brimmed hats of straw, — the inn 
at Draguignan, with its painting of a lady on horseback, 
underwritten in French and English, ^' Une jeune dame 
a la promenade, — a jonng ladi taking a walk," — the 
mouldering arches of the Roman aqueducts at Frejus, 
standing in the dim twilight of morning like shadowy 
apparitions of the past, — the wooden bridge across the 
Var, — the glorious amphitheatre of hills that half encir- 
cle Nice, — the midnight scene at the Tillage inn of Mo- 
naco, — the magnificent scenery of the Col de Tende, with 
its mountain road oyerhanging the sea at a dizzy height, 
and its long, dark passages cut through the solid rock, — 
the tumbling mountain-torrent, — and a fortress perched 
on a jutting spur of the Alps ; these, and a thousand 
varied scenes and landscapes of this journey, rise before 
me, as if still visible to the eye of sense, and not to that 
of memory only. And yet I will not venture upon a 
minute description of them. I have not colors bright 
enough for such landscapes ; and besides, even the most 
determined lovers of the picturesque grow weary of long 
descriptions ; though as the French guide-book says of 
these scenes, " Tout cela fait sans doute un sj^ectacle ad' 
mirahle I " 



Oi^ the tenth day of our journey, we reached Genoa, 
the city of palaces, — the superb city. The writer of an 
old book, called " Time's Storehouse," thus poetically 
describes its situation: — '^This cittie is most proudly 
built upon the seacoast and the downefall of the Appenines, 
at the foot of a mountaine ; even as if she were descended 
downe the mount, and come to repose herselfe uppon a 
plaine." 



THE JO URNEY INTO ITAL T. 23'4 

It was Christmas eve, — a glorious night ! I stood at 
midnight on the wide terrace of our hotel, which over- 
looks the sea, and, gazing on the tiny and crisping waves 
that broke in pearly light beneath the moon, sent back 
my wandering thoughts far over the sea, to a distant 
home. The jangling music of church-bells aroused me 
from my dream. It was the sound of jubilee at the 
approaching festival of the Nativity, and summoned alike 
the pious devotee, the curious stranger, and the gallant 
cicisbeo to the church of the Annunziata. 

I descended from the terrace, and, groping my way 
through one of the dark and narroAV lanes which intersect 
the city in all directions, soon found myself in the Strada 
Nuova. The long line of palaces lay half in shadow, half 
in light, stretching before me in magical perspective, like 
the long vapory opening of a cloud in the summer sky. 
Following the various groups that were passing onward 
towards the public square, I entered the church, where 
midnight mass was to be chanted. A dazzling blaze of 
light from the high altar shone upon the red marble 
columns which support the roof, and fell with a solemn 
effect upon the kneeling crowd that filled the body of tlie 
church. All beyond was in darkness ; and from that 
darkness at intervals burst forth the deep voice of the 
organ and the chanting of the choir, filling the soul with 
solemnity and awe. And yet, among that prostrate 
crowd, how many had been drawn thither by unworthy 
motives, — motives even more unworthy than mere idle 
curiosity ! How many sinful purposes arose in souls 
nnpurified, and mocked at the bended knee ! How many 
a heart beat wild with earthly passion, while the uncon- 
scious lip repeated the accustomed prayer ! Immortal 
spirit ! canst thou so heedlessly resist the imploring voice 



2d2 THE JOUHNET into ITALY. 

tliat calls thee from thine errors and pollutions ? Is noi 
the long day long enough, is not the wide world wide 
enough, has not society frivolity enough for thee, that thou 
shouldst seek out this midnight hour, this holy place, 
^yhis solemn sacrifice, to add irreverence to thy folly ? 

In the shadow of a column stood a young man wrapped 
in a cloak, earnestly conversing in a low whisper with a 
female figure, so veiled as to hide her face from the eyes 
of all but her companion. At length they separated. 
The young man continued leaning against the column, 
and the girl, gliding silently along the dimly lighted aisle, 
mingled with the crowd, and threw herself upon her 
knees. Beware, poor girl, thought I, lest thy gentle 
nature prove thy undoing ! Perhaps, alas, thou art 
already undone ! And I almost heard the evil spirit 
whisper, as in the Faust, ^' How different was it with thee, 
Margaret, when, still full of innocence, thou camest to 
the altar here, — out of the well-worn little book lispedst 
prayers, half child-sport, half God in the heart ! Margaret^ 
where is thy head ? What crime in thy heart ! " 

The city of Genoa is magnificent in parts, but not as a 
whole. The houses are high, and the streets in general 
so narrow that in many of tliem you may almost step 
across from side to side. They are b^ilt to receive the 
cool sea-breeze, and shut out the burbling sun. Only 
three of them — if my memory serves — are wide enough to 
admit the passage of carriages ; and these three form but 
one continuous street, — the street of palaces. They are 
the Strada Nuova, the Strada Novissima, and the Strada 
Balbi, which connect the Piazza Amorosa with the Piazza 
deir Annunziata. These palaces, the Doria, the Durazzo, 
the Ducal Palace, and others of less magnificence,— with 
their vast halls, their marble staircases, vestibules^ and 



TEE JO VRNEY INTO ITAL Y. 233 

terraces, and tlie aspect of splendor and munificence they 
wear, — have given this commercial city the title of Genoa 
the Superb. And, as if to humble her pride, some envious 
rival among the Italian cities has launched at her a biting 
sarcasm in the well known proverb, '^Mare senza j!?e,5ce, 
nomini senza fede, e donne senza vergoyna,^'' — A sea without 
fish, men without faith, and women without modesty ! 



The road from Genoa to Lucca strongly resembles that 
from Nice to Genoa. It runs along the seaboard, now 
dipping to the water's edge, and now climbing the zig-zag 
mountain-pass, with toppling crags, and yawning chasms, 
and verdant terraces of vines and olive-trees. Many a 
sublime and many a picturesque landscape catches the 
traveller's eye, now almost weary with gazing ; and still 
brightly painted upon my mind lies a calm evening scene 
on the borders of the Gulf of Spezia, with its broad sheet 
of cr}^stal water, — the blue-tinted hills that form its oval 
basin, — the crimson sky above, and its bright re- 
flection, — 

** Where it lay- 
Deep bosomed in the still and quiet bay, 
The sea reflecting all that glowed above. 
Till a new sky, softer but not so gay, 
Arched in its bosom, trembled like a dove." 



Pisa, the melancholy city, with its Leaning Tower, 
its Campo Santo, its bronze-gated cathedral, and its 
gloomy palaces, — Florence the Fair, with its magnificent 
Duomo, its gallery of ancient art, its gardens, its gay 
society, and its delightful environs, — Fiesole, Oamaldoli, 



234 THE JO TIIINEY INTO ITAL Y. 

Vallombrosa, and the luxuriant Val d' Arno ; — ^these have 
been so often and so beautifully described by others, that 
I need not repeat the twice-told tale. 



At Florence I took lodgings in a house which fronts 
upon the Piazza Novella. In front of my parlor windows 
was the venerable Gothic church of Santa Maria Novella, 
in whose gloomy aisles Boccaccio has placed the opening 
scene of his Decameron. There^ when the plague was 
raging in the city, one Tuesday morning, after mass, the 
'^ seven ladies, young and fair," held counsel together, 
and resolved to leave the infected city, and flee to their 
rural villas in the environs, where they might "hear 
the birds smg, and see the green hills, and the plains, and 
the fields covered with grain and undulating like the 
sea, and trees of species manifold." 

In the Florentine museum is a representation in wax 
of some of the appalling scenes of the plague which deso^ 
lated this city about the middle of the fourteenth century, 
and which Boccaccio has described with such simplicity 
and power in the introduction of his Decameron. It is the 
work of a Sicilian artist, by the name of Zumbo. He 
must have been a man of the most gloomy and saturnine 
imagination, and more akin to the worm than most of us, 
thus to have revelled night and day in the hideous mys- 
teries of death, corruption, and the charnel-house. It is 
strange how this representation haunts me. It is like a 
dream of the sepulchre, with its loathsome corses, with 
''the blackening, the swelling, the bursting of the trunk, 
— the worm, the rat, and the tarantula at work." You 
breathe more freely as you step out into the open air 



THE JO URNET INTO ITAL T. 235 

again ; and when the bright sunshine and the crowded 
busy streets next meet your eye, you are ready to ask, Is 
this inded a representation of reality ? Can this pure air 
have been laden with pestilence ? Can this gay city have 
eyer been a city of the plague ? 

The work of the Sicilian artist is admirable as a piece 
of art ; the description of the Florentine prose-poet 
equally admirable as a piece of eloquence. '^ How many 
vast palaces," he exclaims, "how many beautiful houses, 
how many noble dwellings, aforetime filled with lords 
and ladies and trains of servants, were now untenanted 
even by the lowest menial ! How many memorable 
families, how many ample heritages, how many re- 
nowned possessions, were left without an heir ! How 
many valiant men, how many beautiful women, how 
many gentle youths, breakfasted in the morning with 
their relatives, companions and friends, and, when the 
evening came, supped with their ancestors in the other 
world!" 



I MET with an odd character at Florence, — a complete 
humorist. He was an Englishman of some forty years 
of age, with a round, good-humored countenance, and a 
nose that wore the livery of good company. He was 
making the grand tour through France and Italy, and 
home again by the way of Tjrrol and the Ehine. He 
travelled post, with a double-barrelled gun, two pairs of 
pistols, and a violin without a bow. He had been in 
Rome without seeing St. Peter's, — he did not care about 
it ; he had seen St. Paul's in London. He had been in 
Naples without visiting Mount Vesuvius ; and did not go 
to Pompeii, because *^ they told him it was hardly worth 



23 G THE JO URNEY INTO ITAL Y, 

seeing, — no tiling but a parcel of dark streets and old 
walls. The principal object he seemed to have in view 
was to complete the grand tour. 

I afterward met with his counterpart in a countiymari 
of my own, who made it a point to see everything which 
was mentioned in the guide-books ; and boasted how 
much he could accomplish in a day. He would despatch 
a city in an incredibly short space of time. A Eoman 
aqueduct, a Gothic cathedral, two or three modern 
churches, and an ancient ruin or so, were only a break- 
fast for him. Nothing came amiss ; not a stone was 
left unturned. A city was like a Chinese picture to him, 
— it had no perspective. Every object seemed of equal 
magnitude and importance. He saw them all ; they 
were all wonderful. 

''Life is short, and art is long," says Hippo(^ates ; yet 
spare me from thus travelling with the speed of thought, 
and trotting, from daylight until dark, at the heels of a 
cicerone, with an umbrella in one hand, and a guide-book 
and plan of the city in the other. 



I COPIED the following singular inscription from a 
tombstone in the Protestant cemetery at Leghorn. It is 
the epitaph of a lady, written by herself, and engraven 
upon her tomb at her own request, 

*' Under this stone lies the victim of sorrow, 
Fly, wandering stranger, from her mouldering dust, 
Lest the rude wind, conveying a particle thereof unto thee. 
Should communicate that venom melancholy 
That has destroyed the strongest frame and liveliest spiritu 
With joy of heart has she resigned her breath, 
A living martyr to sensibility 1 '* 



THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY. 



JO 4 



How inferior in true pathos is this inscription to one in 
the cemetery of Bologna : — 

** Lucrezia Picini 
Implora eterna pace," 

Lucretia Picini implores eternal peace I 

From Florence to Rome I travelled with a yetturino, by 
the way of Siena. We were six days upon the road, and, 
like Peter Rugg in the story-book, were followed con- 
stantly by clouds and rain. At times, the sun, not all- 
forgetful of tlie world, peeped from beneath his cowl of 
mist, and kissed the swarthy face of his beloved land ; 
and then, like an anchorite, withdrew again from earth, 
and gave himself to heaven. Day after day the mist and 
the rain were my fellow-travellers ; and as I sat wrapped 
in the thick folds of my Spanish cloak, and looked out 
upon the misty landscape and the leaden sky, I was con- 
tinually saying to myself, ^^ Can this be Italy?" and 
smiling at the untravelled credulity of those who, amid 
the storms of a northern winter, give way to the illusions 
of fancy, and dream of Italy as a sunny land, where no 
wintry tempest beats, and where, even in January, the 
pale invalid may go about without his umbrella, his 
Belcher handkerchief, or his India-rubber walk-in-the- 
waters. 

Notwithstanding all this, with the help of a good con- 
stitution and a thick pair of boots, I contrived to see all 
that was to be seen upon the road. I walked down the 
long hillside at San Lorenzo, and along the border of the 
Lake of Bolsena, which, veiled in the driving mist, 
stretched like an inland sea beyond my ken ; and through 
the sacred forest of oak, held in superstitious reverence 
b}' tlie peasant, and inviolate from his axe. I passed a 



33» THE JO URNET INTO ITAL Y. 

night at Montefiascone, renowned for a delicate Muscat 
wine, which bears the name of Est, and made a midnight 
pilgrimage to the tomb of the Bishop John Defoncris, 
who died a martyr to his love of this wine of Montefias- 
cone. 

*' Propter nimium Est, Est, Est, 
Do minus meus mortuus est." 

A marble slab in the pavement, worn by the footsteps of 
pilgrims like myself, covers the dominie's ashes. There 
is a rude figure carved upon it, at whose feet I traced out 
the cabalistic words, "Est, Est, Est." The remainder 
of the inscription was illegible by the flickering light of 
the sexton's lantern. 

At Baccano I first caught sight of the dome of St. 
Peter's. We had entered the desolate Campagna ; we 
passed the tomb of Nero, — we approached the Eternal 
City ; but no sound of active life, no thronging crowds, 
no hum of busy men, announced that we were near the 
gates of Rome. All was silence, solitude, and desolation. 



ROME IK MIDSUMMEE. 

She who tamed the world seemed to tame herself at last, and, falling under her 
Own weight, grew to be a prey to Time, who with his iron teeth consumes all 
bodies at last, making all things, both animate and inanimate, which have their 
being under that changeling, the moon, to be subject unto corruption and deso- 
lation. Hoavell's Signokie op Venice. 

THE masks and mummeries of Carnival are over ; the 
imposing ceremonials of Holj Week have become a 
tale of the times of old ; the illumination of St. Peter's 
and the Girandola are no longer the theme of gentle and 
simple ; and finally, the barbarians of the ISTorth have re- 
treated from the gates of Rome, and left the Eternal 
City silent and deserted. The cicerone stands at the 
corner of the street with his hands in his pockets ; the 
artist has shut himself up in his studio to muse upon an- 
tiquity ; and the idle facchino lounges in the market- 
place, and plays at morra by the fountain. Midsummer 
has come ; and you may now hire a palace for what, a 
few weeks ago, would hardly have paid your night's lodg- 
ing in its garret. 

I am still lingering in Rome, — a student, not an artist, 
— and have taken lodgings in the Piazza Navona, the 
very heart of the city, and one of the largest and most 
magnificent squares of modern Rome. It occupies the 
site of the ancient amphitheatre of Alexander Severus ; 
and the churches, palaces, and shops that now surround 
it are built upon the old foundations of the amphitheatre. 
At each extremity of the square stands a fountain ; the 
one with a simple jet of crystal water, the other with a 
239 



240 ROME IN MIDSUMjIER. 

triton holding a dolphin by the tail. In the centre rises 
a nobler work of art ; a fountain with a marble basin 
more than two hundred feet in circumference. From 
the midst uprises a huge rock pierced with four grottoes, 
wherein sit a ram|)ant sea-horse and a lion couchant. On 
the sides of the rock are four colossal statues, represent- 
ing the four principal rivers of the world ; and from its 
summit, forty feet from the basin below, shoots up an 
obelisk of red granite, covered with hieroglyphics, and 
fifty feet in height, — a relic of the amphitheatre of Cara- 
calla. 

In this quarter of the city I have domiciliated myself, 
in a family of whose many kindnesses I shall always re- 
tain the most lively and grateful remembrance. My 
mornings are spent in visiting the wonders of Eome, in 
studying the miracles of ancient and modern art, or in 
reading at the public libraries. We breakfast at noon, 
and dine at the aristocratic hour of eight in the evening. 
The intermediate hours I devote to the acquisition of the 
Italian language, — the idioma gentil soncmte e pnro, — not 
from the lessons of a pragmatical language-mastei^ but in 
the delightful intercourse of a pleasant family circle. 
After dinner comes the conversazione, enlivened with 
exquisite music, and the meeting of travellers, artists, 
and literary men from every quarter of the globe. At 
midnight, when the crowd is gone, I retire to my cham- 
ber, and, poring over the gloomy pages of Dante, or 
'^Bandello's laughing tale," i)rotract my nightly vigil till 
the morning star is in the sky. 

Our parlor windows look out upon the square, vdiich 
circumstance is a source of infinite enjoyment to me. Di- 
rectly in front, with its fantastic belfries and swelling 
dome, rises the church of St. Agnes ; and sitting by the 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. ^4] 

open window, I noce the busy scene beloW;» enjoy the cool 
air of morning and evening, and even feel the freshness 
of the fountain, as its waters leap in mimic cascades down 
the sides of the rock. 



The Piazza Navona is the chief market-place of Rome ; 
and on market-days is filled with a noisy crowd of the 
Roman populace, and the peasantry from the neighboring 
villages of Albano and Frascati. At such times the 
square presents an animated and curious scene. The 
gayly-decked stalls, — the piles of fruits and vegetables, — 
the p3rramids of flowers, — the various costumes of the 
peasantry, — the constant movement of the vast, fluctuat- 
ing crowd, and the deafening clamor of their discordant 
voices, that rise louder than the roar of the loud ocean, 
— all this is better than a play to me, and gives me 
amusement when naught else has power to amuse. 

Every Saturday afternoon in the sultry month of Au- 
gust, this spacious square is converted into a lake, by 
stopping the conduit-pipes which carry off the water of 
the fountains. Coaches, landaus, and vehicles of every 
description, axle-deep, drive to and fro across the mimic 
lake ; a dense crowd gathers around its margin, and a 
thousand tricks excite tlie laughter of the idle populace. 
Here is a fellow groping with a stick after his seafaring 
hat ; there another splashing in the water in pursuit of a 
mischievous spaniel, that has swum away with his shoe ; 
while from a neighboring balcony a noisy burst of mili- 
tary music fills the air, and gives fresh animation to the 
scene of mirth. This is one of the popular festivals of 
midsummer in Rome, and the memest of them all. It 
is a kind of carnival unmasked ; and many a populaf 
iG 



342 ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 

bard, many a Poet a cli dozzina, invokes this day tlie ple- 
beian Muse of the market-place to sing in high-sounding 
rhyme, **// Lago di Piazza Navona.^' 

I have before me one of these sublime effusions. It de- 
scribes the square, — the crowd, — the rattling carriages, — 
the lake, — the fountain, raised by ^^the superhuman ge- 
nius of Bernini," — the lion, — the sea-horse, and the triton 
grasping the dolphin's tail. "Half the grand square," 
thus sings the poet, " where Eome with food is satiate, 
was changed into a lake, around whose margin stood the 
Roman people, pleased with soft idleness and merry holi- 
day, like birds upon the margin of a limpid brook. Up 
and down drove car and chariot ; and the women trembled 
for fear of the deep water ; though merry were the young, 
and well I ween, had they been borne away to unknown 
shores by the bull that bore away Europa, they would 
neither have wept nor screamed ! " 



On the eastern slope of the Janiculum, now called, 
from its yellow sands, Montorio, or the Golden Mountain, 
stands the fountain of Acqua Paola, the largest and most 
abundant of the Roman fountains. It is a small Ionic 
temple, with six columns of reddish granite in front, a 
spacious hall and chambers within, and a garden with a 
terrace in the rear. Beneath the pavement, a torrent of 
water from the ancient aqueducts of Trajan, and from 
the lakes of Bracciano and Martignano, leaps forth in 
three beautiful cascades, and from the overflowing basin 
rushes down the hillside to turn the busy wheels of a dozen 
mills. 

The key of this little fairy palace is in our hands, and 
as often as once a week we pass the day there, amid the 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 243 

odor of its flowers, the rushing sound of its waters, and 
the enchantments of poetry and music. How pleasantly 
the sultry hours steal by ! Cool comes the summer wind 
from the Tiber's mouth at Ostia. Above us is a sky with- 
out a cloud ; beneath us the magnificent panorama of 
Rome and the Campagna, bounded by the Abruzzi and 
the sea. Glorious scene ! one glance at thee would move 
the dullest soul, — one glance can melt the painter and 
the poet into tears ! 

In the immediate neighborhood of the fountain are 
many objects worthy of the stranger's notice. A bowshot 
down the hillside towards the city stands the conyent of 
San Pietro in Montorio ; and in the cloister of this con- 
Tent is a small, round Doric temple, built upon the spot 
which an ancient tradition -points out as the scene of St, 
Peter's martyi'dom. In the opposite direction the road 
leads you over the shoulder of the hill, and out through 
the city-gate to gardens and villas beyond. Passing be- 
neath a lofty arch of Trajan's aqueduct, an ornamented 
gate on the left admits you to the Villa Pamfili-Doria, 
built on the western declivity of the hill. This is the 
largest and most magnificent of the numerous villas that 
crowd the immediate environs of Rome. Its spacious 
terraces, its marble statues, its woodlands and green al- 
leys, its lake and waterfalls and fountains, give it an air 
of courtly splendor and of rural beauty, which realizes 
the beau ideal of a suburban villa. 

This is our favorite resort, when we have passed the 
day at the fountain, and the afternoon shadows begin to 
fall. There we sit on the broad marble steps of the ter- 
race, gaze upon the varied landscape stretching to the 
misty sea, or ramble beneath the leafy dome of the wood- 
land and along the margin of the lake. 



244: ROME m MIDSUMMER, 

*' And drop a pebble to see it sink 
Down in those depths so calm and cool." 

Oh, did we but know when we are liaj^py ! Could the 
restless, feverish, ambitious heart be still, but for a mo- 
ment still, and yield itself, without one farther-aspiring 
throb, to its enjoyment, — then were I happy, — ^yes, thrice 
happy ! But, no ; this fluttering, struggling, and im- 
prisoned spirit beats the bars of its golden cage, — disdains 
the silken fetter ; it will not close its eye and fold its 
wings ; as if time were not swift enough, its swifter 
thoughts outstrip his rapid flight, and onward, onward 
do they wing their way to the distant mountains, to the 
fleeting clouds of the future ; and yet I know, that ere 
long, weary, and wayworn, and disappointed, they shall 
return to nestle in the bosom of the past ! 

This day, also, I have passed at Aqua Paola. From 
the garden terrace I watched the setting sun, as, wrapt 
in golden vapor, he passed to other climes. A friend 
from my native land was with me ; and as we spake of 
home, a liquid star stood trembling like a drop of dew 
upon the closing eyelid of the day. Which of us sketched 
these lines with a pencil upon the cover of Julia's Co- 
rinna ? 

Bright star ! whose soft, familiar ray, 
In colder climes and gloomier skies, 

I've watched so oft when closing day- 
Had tinged the west with crimson dy« ; 

Perhaps to-night some friend I love, 
Beyond the deep, the distant sea, 

Will gaze upon thy path above. 
And give one lingering thought to me« 



ROME IN MIDS UMMER. 245 

ToKQUATi Tasso ossa hic jacent, — Here lie the 
bones of Torquato Tasso, — is the simple inscription upon 
the poet's tomb, in the church of St. Onofrio. Many a 
pilgrimage is made to thisgraye. Many a bard ixom dis- 
tant lands comes to visit the spot, — and as he pflTCies the 
secluded cloisters of the convent where the poet died, and 
where his ashes rest, muses on the sad vicissitudes of his 
life, and breathes an orison for the peace of his soul. He 
sleeps midway between his cradle at Sorrento and his dun- 
geon at Ferrara. . 

The monastery of St. Onofrio stands on the Janiculum, 
overlooking the Tiber and the city of Eome ; and in the 
distance rise the towers of the Eoman Capitol, where, after 
long years of sickness, sorrow, and imprisonment, the 
laurel crown was prepared for the great epic poet of Italy. 
The chamber in which Tasso died is still shown to the 
curious traveller; and the tree in the garden, under 
whose shade he loved to sit. The feelings of the dying 
man, as he reposed in this retirement, are not the vague 
conjectures of poetic revery. He has himself recorded 
them in a letter which he wrote to his friend Antonio Con- 
stantini, a few days only before his dissolution. These 
are his melancholy words : — • 

^' What will my friend Antonio say, when he hears the 
death of Tasso ? Erelong, I think, the news will reach 
him ; for I feel that the end of my life is near ; being 
able to find no remedy for this wearisome indisposition 
which is superadded to my customary infirmities, and by 
which, as by a rapid torrent, I see myself swept away, 
without a hand to save. It is no longer time to speak of 
my unyielding destiny, not to say the ingTatitude of the 
world, which has longed even for the victory of driving 
me a beggar to my gi-ave ; while I thought that the glory 



246 ROME m MIDSmiMER. 

which, in spite of those who will it not, this age shall re- 
ceive from my writings was not to leave me thus without 
reward. I have come to this monastery of St. Onofrio, 
not only because the air is commended by physicians 
as more salubrious than in any other part of Eome, but 
that I may, as it were, commence, in this high place, and 
in the conversation of these devout fathers, my conversa- 
tion in heaven. Pray God for me ; and be assured that as 
I have loved and honored you in this present life, so in 
that other and more real life will I do for you all that be- 
longs to charity unfeigned and true. And to the divine 
mercy I commend both you and myself." 



The modern Eomans are a very devout people. The 
Princess Doria washes the pilgrims' feet in Holy Week ; 
every evening, foul or fair, the whole year round, there 
is a rosary sung before an image of the Virgin, within a 
stone's throw of my window, and the young ladies write 
letters to St. Louis Gonzaga, who in all paintings and 
sculpture is represented as young and angelically beauti- 
ful. I saw a large pile of these letters a few weeks ago in 
Gonzaga's chapel, at the church of St. Ignatius. They 
were lying at the foot of the altar, prettily written on 
smooth paper, and tied with silken ribands of various 
colors. Leaning over the marble balustrade, I read the 
following superscription upon one of them : — ^'AlV An- 
gelico Giovane 8. Luigi Gonzaga, Paradiso, — To the 
angelic youth St. Louis Gonzaga, Paradise." A soldier, 
with a musket, kept guard over this treasure ; and I had 
the audacity to ask him at what hour the mail went out ; 
for which heretical im]3ertinence he cocked his mustache 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER. 24? 

at me with tlie most savage look imaginable, as much as 
to say, " Get thee gone " : — 

"Andate, 
Niente pigliate, 
E mai ritornate." 

The modern Eomans are likewise strongly given to 
amusements of every description. Panem et cir censes, 
says the Latin satirist, when chiding the degraded pro- 
pensities of his countrymen ; Panem et circenses, — they 
are content with bread and the sports of the circus. The 
same may be said at the present day. Even in this hot 
weather, when the shops are shut at noon, and the fat 
priests waddle about the streets with fans in their hands, 
the people crowd to the Mausoleum of Augustus to be 
choked with the smoke of fireworks, and see deformed 
and humpback dwarfs tumbled into the dirt by the 
masked horns of young bullocks. What a refined 
amusement for the inhabitants of " pompous and holy 
Eome ! " * 



The Sirocco prevails to-day, — a hot wind from the 
burning sands of Africa, that bathes its wings in the sea, 
and comes laden with fogs and vapors to the shores of 
Italy. It is oppressive and dispiriting, and quite unmans 
one, like the dog-days of the North. There is a scrap of 
an old English song running in my mind, in which the 
poet calls it a cool wind ; though ten to one I misquote. 

"When the cool Sirocco blows, 
And daws and pies and rooks and crows 
Sit and curse the wintry snows, 
Then give me ale J " 



248 nOME IN MIDSUMMER. 

I should tliinlc that stark English beer might haye a 
potent charm against the j)owers of the foul fiend that 
rides this steaming, reeking wind. A flask of Montefi- 
ascone, or a bottle of Lacrima Christi does yery well. 



Beggaks all, — beggars all ! The Papal city is full of 
them ; and they hold you by the button through the 
whole calendar of siints. You cannot choose but hear. 
I met an old woman yesterday, who pierced my ear with 
this alluring petition : 

"All signore I Quakhe ^nccola cosa, i^er carita ! Vi dird 
la huoiia ventura I Ce una bella signorma, che vi ama 
molto I Per il Sacro Sacramento f Per la Madonna I " 

Which being interpreted, is, ^' Ah, Sir, a trifle, for 
charity's sake ! I will tell your fortune for you ! There 
is a beautiful young lady who loyes you well ! For the 
Holy Sacrament,— for the Madonna's sake ! " 

Who could resist such an appeal ? 

I made a laughable mistake this morning in giying 
alms. A man stood on the shady side of the street with 
his hat in his hand, and as I passed he gaye me a piteous 
look, though he said nothing. He had such a woe-begone 
face, and such a threadbare coat, that I at once took him 
for one of those mendicants who bear the title of poveri 
vergognosi, — bashful beggars ; persons whom pinching 
want compels to receiye the stranger's charity, though 
pride restrains them from asking it. Moyed with com- 
passion, I threw into the hat the little I had to giye ; when, 
instead of thanking me with a blessing, my man with 
the threadbare coat showered upon me the most sono- 
rous maledictions of his natiye tongue, and, emptying his 



ROME m MIDSVMMER. 249 

greasy hat upon the pavement, drew it down over his ears 
with both hands, and stalked away with all the dignity 
of a Eoman senator in the best days of the republic, — to 
the infinite amusement of a green-grocer, who stood at 
his shop-door bursting with laughter. No time was given 
me for an apology ; but I resolved to be for the future 
more discriminating in my charities, and not to take for 
a beggar every poor gentleman who chose to stand in the 
shade with his hat in his hand on a hot summer's day. 



There is an old fellow who hawks pious legends and 
the lives of saints through the streets of Rome, with a 
sharp, cracked voice, that knows no pause nor division 
in the sentences it utters. I just heard him cry at a 
breath : — 

^' La Vita di San Giuseppe quel fidel servitor di Dio 
santoemaraviglioso 7nezzo l)ajocco, — The Life of St. Jo- 
seph that faithful servant of God holy and wonderful half 
a cent. 

This is the way with some people ; everything helter- 
skelter, — heads and tails, — prices current and the lives of 
saints ! 



It has been a rainy day, — a day of gloom. The church 
bells never rang in my ears with so melancholy a sound ; 
and this afternoon I saw a mournful scene, which still 
haunts my imagination. It was the funeral of a monk. 
•I was drawn to the window by the solemn chant, as the 
procession came from a neighboring street and crossed 
the square. First came a long train of priests, clad in 



250 ROME m MIBSTJMMEE. 

black, and bearing in their hands large v/axen tapers, 
(^hich flared in every gust of wind, and were now and 
then extinguished by the rain. The bier followed, borne 
on the shoulders of four barefooted Carmelites ; and upon 
it, ghastly and grim, lay the body of the dead monk, clad 
in his long gray kirtle, with the twisted cord about his 
waist. Not even a shroud was thrown over him. His 
head and feet were bare, and his hands were placed upon 
his bosom, palm to palm, in the attitude of prayer. His 
frame was emaciated, and of a livid hue ; his eyes un- 
closed ; and at every movement of the bier, his head nodded 
to and fro, with an unearthly and hideous aspect. Behind 
walked the monastic brotherhood, a long and melancholy 
procession, with their cowls thrown back, and their eyes 
cast upon the ground ; and last of all came a man with 
a rough, unpainted coffin upon his shoulders, closing the 
funeral train. 



Mai^y of the priests, monks, monsignori, and cardinals 
of Eome have a bad reputation, even after deducting a 
tithe or so from the tales of gossip. To some of them 
maybe applied the rhyming Latin distich, written for the 
monks of old : — 

" Monachi, 
Vestri stomachi 
Sunt amphora Bacchi ; 
Vos estis, 
Deus est testis, 
Turpissima pestis. " 

The graphic description which Thomson gives in his 



ROME m MIDSUMMER. 251 

'' Castle of Indolence " would readily find an impersonal 
tion among the Roman priesthood : — 

" Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, — 
Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy ; — 
A little, round, fat, oily man of God 
Was one I chiefly marked among the fry ; 
He had a roguish twinkle in his eye. 
Which shone all glittering with ungodly dew, 
When a tight damsel chanced to trippen by ; 
But when observed, would shrink into his mew. 
And straight would recollect his piety anew." 



YoN'DER across the cquare goes a Minente of Trastevere ; 
a fellow who boasts the blood of the old Romans in his 
veins. He is a plebeian exquisite of the western bank of 
the Tiber, with a swarthy face and the step of an emperor. 
He wears a slouched hat, and blue velvet jacket and 
breeches, and has enormous silver buckles in his shoes. 
As he marches along, he sings a ditty in his own vulgar 
dialect : — 

" Uno, due, e tre, 
E lo Papa non e Re." 

Now he stops to talk with a woman who sells roasted 
chestnuts. What violent gestures ! what expressive atti- 
tudes ! Head, hands, and feet are all in motion, — not a 
muscle is still ! It must be some interesting subject that 
excites him so much, and gives such energy to his ges- 
tures and his language. No ; he only wants to light his 
pipe ! 



It is now past midnight. The moon is full and bright, 
and the shadows lie so dark and massive in the street 



253 ROME IN MJDSUM3IER. 

that they seem a part of the walls that cast them. I 
haye just returned from the Coliseum, whose ruins are so 
marvellously beautiful by moonlight. Xo stranger at 
Eome omits this midnight visit ; for though there is some- 
thing unpleasant in having one's admiration forestalled, 
and being as it were romantic aforethought, yet the charm 
is so powerful, the scene so surpassingly beautiful and 
sublime, — the hour, the silence, and the colossal ruin have 
such a mastery over the soul, — that you are disarmed 
when most upon your guard, and betrayed into an enthu- 
siasm which perhaps you had silently resolved you would 
not feel. 

On my way to the Coliseum, I crossed the Capitoline 
Hill, and descended into the Roman Forum by the broad 
staircase that leads to the triumphal arch of Septimius 
Severus. Close upon my right hand stood the three 
remaining columns of the Temple of the Thunderer, and 
the beautiful Ionic portico of the Temple of Concord, — • 
their base in shadow, and the bright moonbeam striking 
aslant upon the broken entablature above. Before me 
rose the Phocian Column, — an isolated shaft, like a thin 
vapor hanging in the air scarce visible ; and far to the 
left, the ruins of the Temple of Antonio and Faustina, 
and the three colossal arches of the Temple of Peace, — ■ 
dim, shadowy, indistinct, — seemed to melt away and min- 
gle with the sky. I crossed the Forum to the foot of the 
Palatine, and, ascending the Via Sacra, passed beneath 
the Arch of Titus. From this point, I saw below me the 
gigantic outline of the Coliseum, like a cloud resting upon 
the earth. As I descended the hillside, it grew more broad 
and high, — more definite in its form, and yet more grand 
in its dimensions,— till, from the vale in which it stands 
encompassed by three of the Seven Hills of Rome, — the 



HOME m MIDSUMMER. 253 

Palatine, tlie Coelian, and tlie Escjuiline, — the majestic 
ruin in all its solitary grandeur *' swelled yast to 
heaven." 

A single sentinel was pacing to and fro beneath the 
arched gateway which leads to the interior, and his 
measured footsteps were the only sound that broke the 
breathless silence of the night. What a contrast with the 
scene which that same midnight hour presented, when, 
in Domitian's time, the eager populace began to gather at 
the gates, impatient for the morning sports ! Nor was 
the contrast within less striking. Silence, and the quiet 
moonbeams, and the broad, deep shadows of the ruined 
wall ! Where were the senators of Eome, her matrons, 
and her yirgins ? where the ferocious populace that rent 
the air with shouts, when, in the hundred holidays that 
marked the dedication of this imperial slaughter-house, 
five thousand wild beasts from the Libyan deserts and the 
forests of Anatolia made the arena sick with blood ? 
Where were the Christian martyrs, that died with jDrayers 
upon their lips, amid the jeers and imprecations of their 
fellow-men ? where the barbarian gladiators, brought 
forth to the festival of blood, and *^ butchered to make a 
Roman holiday " ? The awful silence answered, ^^They 
are mine ! " The dust beneath me answered, '' They are 
mine ! " 

I crossed to the opposite extremity of the amphitheatre. 
A lamp was burning in the little chapel, which has been 
formed from what was once a den for the wild beasts of 
the Roman festivals. Upon the steps sat the old beads- 
man, the only tenant of the Coliseum, who guides the 
stranger by night through the long galleries of this vast 
pile of ruins. I followed him up a narrow wooden stair- 
case, and entered one of the long and majestic corridors. 



254 ROME m MIDSUMMER. 

whicli in ancient times ran entirely round the amphithea* 
tre. Huge columns of solid mason-work, that seem the 
labor of Titans, support the flattened arches above ; and 
though the iron clamps are gone, which once fastened the 
hewn stones together, yet the columns stand majestic 
and unbroken, amid the ruin around them, and seem to 
defy ^^the iron tooth of time." Through the arches at 
the right, I could faintly discern the ruins of the baths 
of Titus on the Esquiline ; and from the left, through 
every chink and cranny of the wall, poured in the bril- 
liant light of the full moon, casting gigantic shadows 
around me, and diffusing a soft, silvery twilight through 
the long arcades. At length I came to an open space, 
where the arches above had crumbled away, leaving the 
pavement an unroofed terrace high in air. From this 
point, I could see the whole interior of the amphitheatre 
spread out beneath me, half in shadow, half in light, 
with such a soft and indefinite outline that it seemed less 
an earthly reality than a reflection in the bosom of a lake. 
The figures of several persons below were just percepti- 
ble, mingling grotesquely with their foreshortened shad- 
ows. The sound of their voices reached me in a whisper ; 
and the cross that stands in the centre of the arena looked 
like a dagger thrust into the sand. I did not conjure u]i 
the past, for the past had already become identified with 
the present. It was before me in one of its visible and 
most majestic forms. The arbitrary distinctions of 
time, years, ages, centuries were annihilated. I was a 
citizen of Rome ! This was the amphitheatre of Flavins 
Vespasian ! 

Mighty is the spirit of the past, amid the ruins of the 
Eternal City ! 



THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 

" Egressum magnS me excepit Aricia KomS, 
Hospitio modico." 

Horace. 

I PASSED the montli of September at the Tillage of 
La Riccia, which stands upon the western declivity of 
the Albanian hills, looking towards Rome. Its situation 
is one of the most beautiful which Italy can boast. Like 
a mural crown, it encircles the brow of a romantic hill ; 
woodlands of the most luxuriant foliage whisper around 
it ; aboye it rise the rugged summits of the Abruzzi, and 
beneath lies the level floor of the Campagna, blotted with 
ruined tombs, and marked with broken but magnificent 
aqueducts that point the way to Rome. The whole re- 
gion is classic ground. The Appian Way leads you from 
the gate of Rome to the gate of La Riccia. On one hand 
you have the Alban Lake, on the other the Lake of Nemi ; 
and the sylvan retreats around v/ere once the dwellings of 
Hippolytus and the nymph Egeria. 

The town itself, however, is mean and dirty. The only 
inhabitable part is near the northern gate, where the two 
streets of the village meet. There, face to face, upon a 
square terrace, paved with large, flat stones, stand the 
Ohigi palace and the village church with a dome and por- 
tico. There, too, stands the village inn, with its beds of 
cool, elastic corn-husks, its little dormitories, six feet 
square, and its spacious saloon, upon whose walls the 
melancholy story of Hippolytus is told in gorgeous ires* 

255 



25G THE VILLAGE OF LA BIGCIA. 

coes. And there, too, at the -anion of the streets, just 
peeping through the gateway, rises the wedge-shaped 
Casa Antonini, within whose dusty chambers I passed 
the month of my villeggiaturay in company with two 
much-esteemed friends from the Old Dominion, — a fair 
daughter of that generous clime, and her lord and mas- 
ter, an artist, an enthusiast, and a man of ^'infinite jest."' 

My daily occupations in this delightful S23ot were such 
as an idle man usually whiles away his time withal ifi 
such rural residence. I read Italian poetry, — strolled in 
the Chigi park, — rambled about the wooded environs of 
the village, — took an airing on a jackass, — threw stones 
into the Alban Lake, — and, being seized at intervals with 
the artist-mania, that came upon me like an intermittent 
fever, sketched — or thought I did — the trunk of a hollow 
tree, or the spire of a distant church, or a fountain in 
the shade. 

At such seasons, the mind is ^' tickled with a straw," 
and magnifies each trivial circumstance into an event of 
some importance. I recollect one morning, as I sat at 
breakfast in the village coffee-house, a large and beauti- 
ful spaniel came into the room, and placing his head 
upon my knee looked u]3 into my face with a most pite- 
ous look, poor dog ! as much as to say that he had not 
breakfasted. I gave him a morsel of bread, which he 
swallowed without so much as moving his long silken ears ; 
and keeping his soft, beautiful eyes still fixed upon mine, 
he thumped upon the floor with his bushy tail, as if 
knocking for the waiter. He was a very beautiful animal, 
and so gentle and affectionate in his manner, that I asked 
the waiter who his owner was. 

'*He has none now," said the boy. 

^- What !" said I, "so fine a dog without a master ?" 



THE VILLAGE OF LA RICGIA. 25 



0/ 



*^ All, Sir, he used to belong to Gasparoni, the famous 
robber of the Abruzzi mountains, who murdered so many 
people, and was caught at last and sent to the galleys for 
life. There's his portrait on the wall." 

It hung directly in front of me ; a coarse print, repre- 
senting the dark, stern countenance of that sinful man, a 
face that wore an expression of sayage ferocity and coarse 
sensuality. I had heard his story told in the village ; the 
accustomed tale of outrage, yiolence, and murder. And 
is it possible, thought I, that this man of blood could 
have chosen so kind and gentle a companion ? What a 
rebuke must he have, met in those large, meek eyes, when 
he patted his favorite on the head, and dappled his long 
ears with blood ! Heaven seems in mercy to have ordained 
that none — no, not even the most depraved — should be left 
entirely to his evil nature, without one patient monitor, 
— a wife, — a daughter, — a fawning, meek-eyed dog, whose 
silent, supplicating look may rebuke the man of sin! If 
this mute, playful creature, that licks the stranger's hand, 
were gifted with the power of articulate speech, how many 
a tale of midnight storm, and mountain -pass, and lonely 
glen, would — but these reflections are commonplace ! 

On another occasion I saw an overladen ass fall on the 
steep and slippery pavement of the street. He made vio- 
lent but useless efforts to get upon his feet again ; and 
his brutal driver— more brutal than the suffering beast of 
burden — beat him unmercifully with his heavy whip. 
Barbarian ! is it not enough that you have laid upon your 
uncomplaining servant a burden greater than he can 
bear ? Must you scourge this unresisting slave, be- 
cause his strength has failed him in your hard service ? 
Does not that imploring look disarm you ? Does not — ■ 
and here was another theme for commonplace reflection I 
17 



258 THE VILLAGE OF LA BICCIA. 

Again. A little band of pilgrims, clad in white, with 
staves, and scallop-shells, and sandal shoon, have just 
passed through the village gate, wending their toilsome 
way to the holy shrine of Loretto. They wind along the 
hrow of the hill with slow and solemn pace, — just as 
they ought to do, to agree with my notion of a pilgrim- 
age, drawn from novels. And now they disappear be- 
hind the hill ; and hark ! they are singing a mournful 
hymn, like Christian and Hopeful on their way to the 
Delectable Mountains. How strange it seems to me, 
that I should ever behold a scene like this ! a pilgrimage 
to Loretto ! Here was another outline for the imagina- 
tion to fill up. 

But my chief delight was in sauntering along the 
many woodland walks, which diverge in every direction 
from the gates of La Eiccia. One of these plunges down 
the steep declivity of the hill, and, threading its way 
through a most romantic valley, leads to the shapeless 
tomb of the Horatii and the pleasant village of Albano. 
Another conducts you over swelling uplands and through 
wooded hollows to Genzano and the sequestered Lake of 
Nemi, which lies in its deep crater, like the waters of 
a well, ** all coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the 
snake." A third, and the most beautiful of all, runs in 
an undulating line along the crest of the last and lowest 
ridge of the Albanian Hills, and leads to the borders of 
the Alban Lake. In parts it hides itself in thick-leaved 
hollows, in parts climbs the open hillside and overlooks 
the Campagiia. Then it winds along the brim of the 
deep, oval basin of the lake, to the village of Castel 
Gandolfo, and thence onward to Marino, Grotta-Ferrata, 
and Frascati. 

That part of the road which looks down upon the lake 



THE VILLAGE OF LA HIGGLE. 259 

passes tlirougli a magnificent gallery of thick embowering 
trees, whose dense and luxuriant foliage completely shuts 
out the noonday sun, forming 

'' A greensward wagon-way, that, Uke 
Cathedral aisle, completely roofed with branches, 
Runs through the gloomy wood from top to bottom, 
And has at either end a Gothic door 
Wide open." 

This long sylvan arcade is called the Galleria-di-sopra, 
to distinguish it from the Galleria-di-sotto, a similar, 
though less beautiful avenue, leading from the Castel 
Gandolfo to Albano, under the brow of the hill. In this 
upper gallery, and almost hidden amid its old and leafy 
trees, stands a Capuchin convent, with a little esplanade 
in front, from which the eye enjoys a beautiful view of 
the lake, and the swelling hills beyond. It is a lovely 
sj)ot, — so lonely, cool, and still ; and was my favorite and 
most frequented haunt. 

Another pathway conducts you round the southern 
shore of the Alban Lake, and, after passing the site of 
the ancient Alba Longa, and the convent of Palazzuolo, 
turns off to the right through a luxuriant forest, and 
climbs the rugged i3recipice of Eocca di Papa. Behind 
this village swells the rounded peak of Monte Cavo, the 
highest pinnacle of the Albanian Hills, rising three 
thousand feet above the level of the sea. Upon its sum- 
mit once stood a temple of Jupiter, and the Triumphal 
Way, by wdiich the Eoman conquerors ascended once a 
year in solemn 2:>rccession to oifer sacrifices, still leads you 
up the side of the hill. But a convent has been built upon 
the ruins of the ancient temple, and the disciples of 
Loyola are now the only conquerors that tread the pave« 
ment of the Triumphal Way. 



260 THE TILLAGE OF LA RICCIA. 

The view from the windows of the convent is vast and 
magnificent. Directly beneath yoii, the sight plunges 
headlong into a gulf of dark-green foliage, — the Alban 
Lake seems so near, that you can almost drop a pebble 
into it, — and Nemi, imbosomcd in a green and cup-like 
valley, lies like a dew-drop in the hollow of a leaf. All 
around you, upon every swell of the landscape, the white 
walls of rural towns and villages peep from their leafy 
"coverts, — Genzano, La Eiccia, Castel Gandolfo, and 
Albano ; and beyond spreads the flat and desolate Cam- 
pagna, with Eome in its centre and seamed by the silver 
thread of the Tiber, that at Ostia, "with a pleasant 
stream, whirling in rapid eddies, and yellow with much 
sand, rushes forward into the sea." The scene of half 
the ^neid is spread beneath you like a map ; and it 
would need volumes to describe each point that arrests 
the eye in this magnificent panorama. 

As I stood leaning over the balgony of the convent, 
giving myself up to those reflections which the scene in- 
spired, one of the brotherhood came from a neighboring 
cell, and entered into conversation with me. He was an 
old man, with a hoary head and a trembling hand; yet 
his voice v/as musical and soft, and his eye still beamed 
with the enthusiasm of youth. 

"How wonderful," said he, "is the scene before us ! 
I have been an inmate of these walls for thirty years, and 
yet this prospect is as beautiful to my eye as when I 
gazed upon it for the first time. Not a day passes that I 
do not come to this window to behold and to admire. 
My heart i-^ still alive to the beauties of the scene, and to 
all the classic associations it inspires." 

"You have never, then, been v/hippcd by an angel foJ 
readinsr Cicero and Plautus, as St. Jerome was ? " 



THE VILLAGE OF LA EIGGLA. 261 

'^No/' said the monk, with a smile. ^Trom my 
youth up I have been a disciple of Chrysostom, who 
often slept Avith the comedies of Aristophanes beneath 
his pillow ; and yet I confess that the classic associations 
of Roman history and fable are not the most thrilling 
which this scene awakens in my mind. Yonder is the 
bridge from which Constantino beheld the miraculous 
cross of fire in the sky ; and I can never forget that this 
convent is built upon the ruins of a pagan temple. The 
town of Ostia, which lies before us on the sea-shore, is 
renoAvned as the spot where the Trojan fugitive first 
landed on the coast of Italy. But other associations than 
this have made the spot holy in my sight. Marcus Min- 
utius Felix, a Roman lawyer, who flourished in the third 
century, a convert to our blessed faith, and one of the 
purest writers of the Latin Church, here places the scene 
of his ^Octavius.' This work has probably never fallen 
into your hands ; for you are too young to have pushed 
your studies into the dusty tomes of the early Christian 
fathers. " 

I replied that I had never so much as heard the book 
mentioned before ; and the monk continued : — 

'^ It is a dialogue upon the vanity of pagan idolatry and 
the truth of the Christian religion, betvv-een Csecilius, a 
heathen, and Octavius, a Christian. The style is rich, 
flowing, and poetical ; and if the author handles his 
weapons with less power than a Tertullian, yet he ex- 
hibits equal adroitness and more grace. He has rather 
the studied elegance of the Roman lawyer, than the bold 
spirit of a Christian martyr. But the volume is a treasure to 
me in my solitary hours, and I love to sit here upon the 
balcony, and con its poetic language and sweet imageiy. 
You shall see the volume ; I carry it in my bosom." 



2G2 THE VILLAGE OF LA RIGCIA. 

With these words, the monk drew from the folds of his 
gown a small volume, richly embossed and clasped with 
silver ; and, turning over its well worn leaves, con- 
tinued : — 

^* In the introduction, the author describes himself as 
walking upon the sea-shore at Ostia, in company with his 
friends Octavius and Caecilius. Observe in what beauti- 
ful language he describes the scene." 

Here he read to n.e the following passage, which I 
transcribe, not from memory, but fi'om the book itself. 

" It was vacation-time, and that gave me a-loose from 
my business at the bar ; for it was the season after the 
summer's heat, when autumn promised fair, and put on 
the face of temperate. We set out, therefore, in the 
morning early, and as we were walking upon the sea- 
shore, and a kindly breeze fanned and refreshed our limbs, 
and the yielding sand softly submitted to our feet and 
made it delicious travelling, Csecilius on a sudden espied 
the statue of Serapis, and, according to the vulgar mode 
of superstition, raised his hand to his mouth, and paid his 
adoration in kisses. Upon which, Octavius, addressing 
himself to me, said, — '^It is not well done, my brother 
Marcus, thus to leave your inseparable comj^anion in the 
depth of vulgar darkness, and to suffer him, in so clear a 
day, to stumble upon stones ; stones, indeed, of figure, 
and anointed with oil, and crowned ; but stones, however, 
still they are ; — for you cannot bat be sensible that your 
permitting so foul an error in your friend redounds no less 
to your disgrace than his.' This discourse of his held us 
through half the city ; and now we began to find ourselves 
upon the free and open shore. There the gently washing 
waves had spread the extremest sands into the order of an 
artificial walk ; and as the sea always expresses some rough- 



THE VILLAGE OF LA PJCCIA. 2G3 

ness in his looks, even when the winds (ire still, although 
he did not roll in foam and angry surges to the shore, yet 
were we much delighted, as we walked upon the edges of 
the water, to see the crisping, frizzly waves glide in snaky 
folds, one v/hile playing against our feet, and then -again 
retiring and lost in the devouring ocean. Softly then, 
and calmly as the sea about us, we travelled on, and kept 
upon the brim of the gently declining shore, beguiling the 
way with our stories.'' 

Here the sound of vhe convent-bell interrupted the 
reading of the monk, and, closing the volume, he rei)laced 
it in his bosom, and bade me farewell, with a parting in- 
junction to read the '^ Octavius " of Mijiatius Felix as 
soon as I should return to Eome. 

During the summer months, La Riccia is a favorite re- 
sort of foreign artists who are pursuing their studies in 
the churches and galleries of Eome. Tired of copying 
the works of art, they go forth to copy the works of na- 
ture ; and you will find them perched on their camp- 
stools at every picturesque point of view, v/ith white 
umbrellas to shield them from the sun, and paint-boxes 
upon their knees, sketching with busy hands the smiling 
features of the landscape. The peasantry, too, are fine 
models for their study. The women of Genzano are noted 
for their beauty, and almost every village in the neighbor- 
hood has something peculiar in its costume. 

The sultry day was closing, and I had reached, in my 
accustomed evening's walk, the woodland gallery that 
looks down upon the Alban Lake. The setting sun 
seemed to melt away in the sky, dissolving into a golden 
rain, that bathed the whole Campagna Vvdth unearthly 
splendor ; v/hile Rome m the distance, half -hidden, half- 
rcYcaled, li'.y iioatnig like a mote in the broad imd misty 



2G4 TUE VILLAGE OF LA FJCCIA. 

sunbeam. The woodland v/alk before me seemed roofed 
with gold and emerald ; and at intervals across its leafy 
arches shot the level rays of the sun, kindling, as they 
passed, like the burning shaft of Acestes. Beneath me 
the lake slept quietly. A blue, smoky vapor floated around 
its overhanging cliffs ; the tapering cone of Monte Cavo 
hung reflected in the water ; a little boat skimmed along 
its glassy surface, and I could even hear the sound of the 
laboring oar, so motionless and silent ^/as the air around 
me. 

I soon reached the convent of Oastel Gandolfo. Upon 
one of the stone benches of the esplanade sat a monk with 
a book in his hand. He saluted me, as I approached, and 
some trivial remarks upon the scene before us led us into 
conversation. I observed by his accent that he vras not a 
native of Italy, though he spoke Italian with great fluency. 
In this opinion I was confirmed by his saying that he 
should soon bid farewell to Italy and return to his native 
lakes and mountains in the north of Ireland. I then said 
to him in English, — 

'' How strange, that an Irishman and an Anglo-Ameri- 
can should be conversing together in Italian uj^on the 
shores of Lake Albano ! " 

^^ It is strange," said he, with a smile; *^^ though 
stranger things have happened. But I ovv^e the pleasure 
of this meeting to a circumstance wliich changes that 
pleasure into pain. I have been detained here many 
weeks beyond tlie time I had fixed for my departure by 
the sickness of a friend, vfho lies at the point of death 
within the walls of this convent." 

" Is he, too, a Capuchin friar like yourself ? " 

" He is. We came together from our native land, some 
six years ago, to study at the Jesuit College in Rome. 



THE VILLAGE OF LA RIGCIA. 265 

This summer we were to have returned home again ; but 
I shall now make the journey alone.'* 

*^ Is there, then, no hope of his recovery ? '' 

*^'None whatever/' answered the monk, shaking his 
head. ^^He has been brought to this convent from 
Eome, for the benefit of a purer air ; but it is only to die, 
and be buried near the borders of this beautiful like. He 
is a victim of consumption. But come Vvdth me to his 
cell. He will feel it a kindness to have you visit him. 
Such a mark of sympathy in a stranger will bo grateful to 
him in this foreign land, where friends are so fcvv'." 

We entered the chapel together, and, ascending a flight 
of steps beside the altar, passed into the cloisters of the 
convent. Another flight of steps led up to the dormito- 
ries above, in one of which the sick man lay. Here my 
guide left mo for a moment, and softly entered a neigh= 
boring cell. Ho soon returned and beckoned me to come 
in. The room was dark and hot ; for the window-shut- 
ters had been closed to keep out the rays of the sun, that 
ill the after part of the day fell unobstructed uj^on the 
vrestern wall of the convent. In one corner of the little 
room, uj)on a pallet of straw, lay the sick man, with his 
face towards the wall. As I entered, he raised himself 
upon his elbow, and, stretching out his hand to me, said, 
in a faint voice, — 

" I am glad to see you. It is kind in you to make me 
this visit." 

Then speaking to his friend, he begged him to open 
the window-shutter and let in the light and air ; and as 
the bright sunbeam through the wreathing vapors of 
evening played upon the v/all and ceiling, he said, with a 
sigh,— 

*^How beautiful is rn Italian sunset ! Its splendor is 



OvJ 



THE YILLAGE OF LA BICCIA. 



all around us, as if we stood in tlie liorizon itself and could 
touch the sky. And 3^et, to a sick man's feeble and dis- 
tempered sight, it has a wan and sickly hue. He turns 
away with an aching heart from the splendor he cannot 
enjoy. The cool air seems the only friendly thing that is 
left for him." 

As he spake, a deeper shade of sadness stole over his 
pale countenance, sallow and attenuated by long illness. 
But it soon passed off : and as the conversation changed 
to other topics, he grew cheerful again. He spoke of his 
return to his native land with childish delight. This 
hope had not deserted him. It seemed never to have 
entered his mind that even this consolation would be 
denied him, — that death would thv/art even these fond 
anticipations. 

*' I shall soon be well enough," said he, ^' to undertake 
the journey ; and, 0, with what delight shall I turn my 
back upon the Apennines ! "We shall cross the Alps into 
Sv/itzerland, then go down the Rhine to England, and 
soon, soon we shall see the shores of the Emerald Isle, and 
once more embrace father, mother, sisters ! By my pro- 
fession, I have renounced the world, but not those holy 
emotions of love which are one of the highest attributes 
of the soul, and which, though sown in corruption here, 
shall hereafter be raised in incorruption. No ; even He 
that died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the 
unutterable agony of death, was mindful of his mother ; 
as if to teach us that this holy love should be our last 
worldly thought, the last point of earth from which the 
soul should take its flight for heaven." 

He ceased to s^Dcak. His eyes were fastened upon the 
sky with a fixed and steady gaze, though all unconsciously, 
for his thoughts were far avv^ay amid the scenes of his 



THE VILLAGE OF LA EICCIA. 26) 

distant home. As I left his cell, he seemed sinking to 
sleep, and hardly noticed my departure. The gloom oi 
twilight had already filled the cloisters ; the monks were^ 
chanting their evening hymn in the chapel ; and one un- 
broken shadow spread through the long cathedral aisle oi 
forest-trees which led me homeward. There, in the si- 
lence of the hour, and amid the almost sepulchral gloom 
of the woodland scene, I tried to impress upon my care- 
less heart the serious and affecting lesson I had learned. 

I saw the sick monk no more ; but a day or two after- 
ward I heard in the village that he had departed, — not 
foi' an earthly, but for a heavenly home. 



NOTE-BOOK. 



Once more among the old, gigantic hills, 

With vapors clouded o'er, 
The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, 

And rocks ascend before. 
They beckon me, — the giants,— from afar, 

They wing my footsteps on ; 
Their helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, 

Their cuirasses of stone. 

Oehlexschlaegeb. 



THE glorious autumn closed. Erom the Abruzzi 
came the Zampognari, playing their rustic bag- 
pipes beneath the images of the Virgin in the streets of 
Rome, and hailing with rude minstrelsy the approach of 
merry Christmas. The shops were full of dolls and 
gew-gaws for the Bifana, who enacts in Italy the same 
merry interlude for children that Santiclaus does in the 
North ; and travellers from colder climes began to fly 
southward, like sun-seeking swallows. 

I left Rome for Venice, crossing the Apennines by the 
wild gorge of the Strettura, in a drenching rain. At 
Eano we struck into the sands of the Adriatic, and fol- 
lowed the seashore northward to Rimini, where in the 
market-place stands a pedestal of stone, from which, 
as an officious cicerone informed me, "Julius Caesar 
preached to his army, before crossing the Rubicon." 
Other principal points in my journey were Bologna, with 
its Campo Santo, its gloomy arcades, and its sausages ; 
Ferrara, with its ducal palace and tiie dungeon of Tasso ; 
268 



NOTE-BOOK. ■ %m 

Padua tlie Learned, with its sombre and scholastic air, 
and its inhabitants "apt for pike or pen." 



I FiEST saw Venice by moonlight, as we skimmed by 
the island of St. George in a felucca, and entered the 
Grand Canal. A thousand lamps glittered from the 
square of St. Mark, and along the water's edge. Above 
rose the cloudy shapes of spires, domes, and j^alaces, 
emerging from the sea; and occasionally the twinkling 
lamp of a gondola darted across the water like a shooting 
star, and suddenly disappeared, as if quenched in the 
wave. There was something so unearthly in the scene, — 
BO visionary and fairy-like, — that I almost expected to 
see the city float away like a cloud, and dissolve into 
thin air. 

Howell, in his "Signorie of Venice," says, "It is the 
water, wherein she lies like a swan's nest, that doth both 
fence and feed her." Again : " She swims in wealth and 
wantonness, as well as she doth in the waters ; she melts 
in softness and sensuality, as much as any other whatso- 
ever." And still farther : " Her streets are so neat and 
evenly paved, that in the dead of winter one may walk up 
and down in a pair of satin pantables and crimson silk 
stockings, and not be dirtied." And the old Italian 
proverb says, — 

** Venegia, Venegia, 
Chi non ti vede non ti pregia ; 
Ma chi t' ha troppo veduto 
Ti dispregia ! " 

Venice, Venice, who sees thee not doth not prize- thee f 
but who hath too much seen thee doth despise thee ! 



Should you ever want a gondolier at Venice to sing 
you a passage from Tasso by moonlight, inquire for Toni 
Toscan. He lias a voice like a raven. I sketched his 
portrait in my note-book ; and he wrote beneath it this 
inscription : — 

" Poeta Natural che Venizian, 
Ch' el so iiome xe un tal Toni Toscan." 



The road from Venice to Trieste traverses a vast tract 
of level land, with the Friulian Mountains on the left, and 
the Adriatic on the right. You pass through long ave- 
nues of trees, and the road stretches in unbroken per- 
spective before and behind. Trieste is a busy, commer- 
cial city, with wide streets intersecting each other at right 
angles. It is a mart for all nations. Greeks, Turks, 
Italians, Germans, French, and English meet you at every 
corner and in every coffee-house ; and the ever-changing 
variety of national countenance and costume affords an 
amusing and instructive study for a traveller. 



Tkieste to Vienna. Daybreak among the Carnic 
Alps. Above and around me huge snow-covered pinna- 
cles, shapeless masses in the pale starlight, — till touched 
by the morning sunbeam, as by Ithuriel's spear, they as- 
sume their natural forms and dimensions. A long, wind- 
ing valley beneath, sheeted with spotless snow. At my 
side a yawning and rent chasm ; — a mountain brook, — '■ 
seen now and then through the chinks of its icy bridge, 
black and treacherous, — and tinkling along its frozen 
channel with a sound like a distant clanking of chains. 



NOTE-BOOK. 271 

Magnificent highland scenery between Griitz and Vi- 
enna in the Steiermark. The wild mountain-pass from 
Meerzuschlag to Schottwien. A castle built like an 
eagle's nest upon the top of a perpendicular crag. A 
little hamlet at the base of the mountain. A covered 
wagon, drawn by twenty-one horses, slowly toiling up 
the slippery, zigzag road. A snow-storm. Reached Vienna 
at midnight. 



On the southern bank of the Danube, about sixteen 
miles above Vienna, stands the ancient castle of Greifen- 
stein, where — if the tale be true, though many doubt and 
some deny it — Eichard the Lion-heart of England was 
imprisoned, when returning from the third crusade. It is 
built upon the summit of a steep and rocky hill, that 
rises just far enough from the river's brink to leave a 
foothold for the highway. At the base of the hill stands 
the village of Greifenstein, from which a winding path- 
way leads you to the old castle. You pass through an 
arched gate into a narrow court-yard, and thence onward 
to a large, square tower. Near the doorway, and deeply 
cut into the solid rock, upon which the castle stands, is 
the form of a human hand, so perfect that your own lies 
in it as in a mould. And hence the name of Greifenstein. 
In the square tower is Richard's prison, completely isola-. 
ted from the rest of the castle. A wooden staircase leads 
you up on the outside to a light balcony, running entirely 
round the tower, not far below its turrets. From this 
balcony you enter the prison, — a small, square chamber, 
lighted by two Gothic windows. The walls of the tower 
are some five feet thick ; and in the pavement is a trap- 
door, opefting into a dismal vault, — a vast dungeon, which 



272 NOTE-BOOK, 

occupies all the lower part of tlic tower, quite; down to 
its rocky foundations, and Y/Licli formerly had no en- 
trance but the trap-door above. In one corner of the 
chamber stands a large cage of oaken timber, in which the 
royal prisoner is said to hayo been shut up ; the grossest 
hijmbug that ever cheated the gaping curiosity of a trav- 
eller. ?' A'.: 

The balcony commands some fine and picturesque 
views. Beneath you winds the lordly Danube, spreading 
its dark waters over a wide tract of meadow-land, and 
forming numerous little islands ; and all around, the 
landscape is bounded by forest-covered hills, topped by 
tlie mouldering turrets of a feudal castle or the tapering 
spire of a village church. The spot is well worth visiting, 
though German antiquaries say that Richard was not im- 
prisoned there ; this story being at best a bold conjecture 
of what is possible, though not probable. 

A ■ > • 

From Vienna I passed northward, visiting Prague, 
Dresden, and Leipsic, and then folding my wings for a 
season in the scholastic shades of Got tino-en. Thence I 

O 

passed through Oassel to Frankfort on the Maine ; and 
thence to Mayence, Y»diere I took the steamboat, down ,the 
Rhine. These several journeys I shall not describe, for 
as many several reasons. First, — but no matter, — I jDre- 
fer thus to stride across the earth like tlie Satumian in Mi- 
cromegas, making but one step from the Adriatic to the 
German Ocean. I leave untold the wonders of the won- 
drous Rhine, a fascinating theme. I^ot even the beauties 
of the Vautsbur^: and the Bincrenloch shall detain mc. I 
hasten, like the blue waters of that romantic river, ,ta lose 
myself in the sands of Holland. 



THE PILGEIM'S SALUTATION 



Te who have traced the Filgrim to the pcene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell. 

Childe Hakold. 



THESE, fair dames and courteous gentlemen, are 
some of the scenes and musings of my pilgrimage, 
v^hen I journeyed away from my kith and kin into the 
land of Outre-Mer. And yet amid these scenes and mus- 
ings, — amid all the novelties of the Old World, and the 
quick succession of images that were continually calling 
my thoughts away, there were always fond regrets and 
longings after the land of my birth lurking in the secret 
corners of my heart. When I stood by the sea-shore, and 
listened to the melancholy and familiar roar of its waves, 
it seemed but a step from the threshold of a foreign land 
io the fireside of home ; and when I watched the out- 
bound sail, fading over the water's edge, and losing itself 
in the blue mists of the sea, my heart went with it, and I 
■'"urned away fancy-sick with, the blessings of h ome and 
the endearments of domestic love. 

*' I know not how, — but in yon land of rosea 
My heart was heavy still ; 
I startled at the warbling nightingale, 

The zephyr on the hill. 
18 273 



274 THE PILGRIM' 8 SAL UTA TIOJ^, 

They said the stars shone with a softer gleam : 

It seemed not so to me I 
In vain a scene of beauty beamed around.— 

My thoughts were o'er the sea. 



At times I would sit at midnight in the solitude of my 
chamber, and give way to the recollection of distant 
friends. How delightful it is thus to strengthen within 
us the golden threads that unite our sympathies with the 
past, — to fill up, as it were, the blanks of existence with 
the images of those we love ! How sweet are these 
dreams of homo in a foreign land ! How calmly across 
life's stormy sea blooms that little world of affection, like 
those Hesperian isles where eternal summer reigns, and 
the olivo blossoms all the year round, and honey distils 
from the hollow oak ! Truly, the love of home is inter- 
woven with all that is pure, and deep, and lasting in 
earthly affection. Let us wander where we may, the 
heart looks back with secret longing to the paternal roof. 
There the scattered rays of affection concentrate. Time 
may enfeeble them, distance overshadow them, and the 
storms of life obstruct them for a season ; but they will 
at length break through the cloud and storm, and glow, 
and burn, and brighten around the peaceful tlireshold of 
home. 

And now, farewell ! The storm is over, and through 
the partmg clouds the radiant sunshine breaks upon my 
path. God's ])lessing upon you for your hospitality. I 
fear I have but poorly repaid it by these tales of my pil- 
grimage ; and I bear your kindness meekly, for I come 
not like Theudas of old, '^boasting myself to be some- 
body." 

Farewell ! My prayer is, that I be not riiiong you as 



THE PILGRUrS SALUTATION. 275 

the stranger at the court of Busiris ; that your God-speed 
be not a thrust that kills. 

Pax vobiscum I The Pilgrim's benison upon this hon- 
orable company. 



OOLOPHv>N. 

Heart, take thine gase,^ 
Men hard to please 

Thou haply niightst offend; , 

Though pome speak ill 
Of thee, some will 

Say better ; — there's an end. 

Heylix. 

MY pilgrimage is ended. I have come home to rest ^ 
and, recording the time past, I have fulfilled these 
things, and written them in this book, as it would come 
into my mind, — for the most part, when the duties of the 
day were over, and the world around me was hushed in 
sleep. The pen wherewith I write most easily is a feather 
stolen from the sable wing of night. Even now, as I 
record these parting words, it is long past midnight. The 
morning watches have begun. And as I write, the mel- 
ancholy thought intrudes upon me, — To what end is all 
this toil ? Of what avail these midnight vigils ? Dost 
thou covet fame ? Vain dreamer ! A few brief days, — 
and what will the busy world know of thee ? Alas ! this 
little book is but a bubble on the stream ; and although 
it may catch the sunshine for a moment, yet it will soon 
float down the swift-rushing current, and be seen -no 
more I 



marks the women of oar households when they undertake to make theie 
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regard for decent homes by their indefatigability. What a pity that any 
of them should add to their toil by neglecting to use Sapolio. It reduces 
the labor of cleaning and scouring at least one-half. 10c. a cake. Sold bf 
all grocers. 




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397 25 



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474 28 

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Famous Funny Fellows. No. 291 20 

Fatal Boots, etc., No. 262 10 

Felix Holt, by G. Eliot, No. 151 20 

Fettered for Life, by Blake, No. 597. . . .25 
File No. 113 bv Gaboriau, No. 258. ...20 

Fire Brigade, The, No. 226 20 

Fitzboodle Papers, etc. No. 280 10 

Fleurette, by Eugene Scribe, No. 22... 20 
Flower of Doom, Che, M. Betham-Ed- 

wards. No. 663 10 

For Each and For All, No. 263 15 

For Lilias, by Rosa N. Carey, No. 660. .20 
Porayers, The, Simms, No. 697 M 



LOVELL'S LIBRARY. 



Forbidden Fruit, No. COfi 20 

. yors Clavigera, Ruskin,Vol. I., No. 707.. 30 
fors Clavigera, Huskiu, Vol. II., No. 

708 30 

Fors Clavigera, Raskin, Vol. III., 'No. 

713 30 

Fors C'avlgera, Rnskin, Vol. IV., No. 

14 30 

Forl..-.ies of Nigel, by Scott, No. 504. ...20 
Four Georges, by Thackeray, No. 2G4. .10 

Four MiicNicols, The, No. 217 10 

Frankenstein, by Mrs. Shelley, No. 5.. 10 

Freckles, by R. P. Redd, No. 16 20 

Frederick the Great, Vol. I., No. 578. . .20 
Frederick the Great, Vol. II., No. 5S0.20 
Fredei-ick the Great, Vol. III., No. 501.20 
Frederick the Great, Vol. IV., No. 

. GIO 20 

Frederick the Great, Vol. V., No. 619. .20 
Frederick the Great, Vol. VI.. No. 622.20 

Frederiok the Great, VII., No. 626 20 

Frederick the Great, VIII., No. 628. . . .20 
Galaski, by G, M. Bayne, No. 400 ... .20 
Gautran, by B. L. Farjeon, No. 243. . . .20 
German Literature, by Carlyle, No. 550.15 
Giant's Robe, by P. Anstey, No. o94. ..20 

Gideon Pleyce, by H. Lucy, No. 96 20 

Godolphin, by Lytton, No. 280 20 

Goethe, etc., by Carlyle, No. 522 10 

Goethe's Faust, No. 342 20 

Goethe's Poems, No. 343. 20 

Gold Bus. and Other Tales, by Foe, No, 

aH 15 

Golden Calf, The, by Braddon, No. 88.20 
Golden Dog, The, by P. Kirby, No. 454.40 

Golden Girls, by A. Muir, No. 312 20 

Golden Shaft, The, by Gibbon, No. 57.20 
Goldsmith's Plays and Poems, No. 362.20 

Glen of the Echoes. No. 400 15 

Grandfather Lickshingle, No. 350 20 

Grandfather's Chair, by Hawthorne, 

No. 376 20 

Great Expectations, No. 192. . . 20 

Great Hoggarty Diamond, No. 316. ... 10 

Green Mountain Boys, No. 21 20 

Green Pastures, etc.. No. 184 20 

Grimm's Fairy Tales, No. 221 20 

Gulliver's Travels, No. 68 20 

Guy Mannering, by Scott, No. 620 20 

Guy Rivers, bv Simms. No. 690 30 

Gypsy Qaeen,"The, No. 98 20 

Happy Boy, The, by Bjurnson, No. 3.. 10 
Happy Man, The, by Lover, No. 163.. .10 

Hard Times, No. 170 20 

Harold, 2 Parts, No. 276, each 15 

Harry Holbrooke, No. 101 20 

Harry Lorrequer, No. 327 20 

Haunted Hearts, No. 125 10 

Haimted Bou^e, The, etc.. No. 32 10 

Headsman, The, by Cooper, No. 519 20 

Heart and Science, No. 87 20 

Heart of Mid-Lothian, by Scott, No, 

499 30 

^Heidenmaur, by Cooper, No, 517 20 

flemans', Mrs.. Poems, No. 583 30 

Henry Esmond, No. 141 20 

Her Mother's Sin, No. 183. 20 

Her Martyrdom, B. V. Clay, No. 689. . .20 

Hermits, The. No. 3i 20 

Heroes, and Hero-Worship, No. 541 20 

Hilda by B. M. Clay, No. 669 10 

HiU and VaUey, by Martineau, No. 372.15 



History of the French Revolution, 2 

Pbs., by Carlyle, No. 486, each... 28 

History of the Mormons, No. 440 15 

Home as Found, by Cooper, No. 441,... 20 

Homer's Iliad, by Pope, No. 396. 30 

Homer's Odyssey, by Pope, No. 391 20 

Homes Abroad, No. 358 IE 

Home Scenes, by Arthur, No. 545 15 

Homeward Bound, by Cooper, No. 37^.20 

Hood's Poems, No. 511 30 

Horse-Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, No. 67, 

each 15 

Housekeeping and Homemaking, No. 

107 15 

How He Reached the W hlte House, No. 

402 25 

How It All Came Round, No. 328 20 

Hygiene of the Brain, No. 356 25 

Hypatia, 2 Parts, No. 64, each 15 

Hyperion, by Longfellow, No. 1 20 

" I Say No," by Wilkie CoUins, No. 418.20 
In Cupid's Net, B. M. Clay, No. 700.... 10 

India and Ceylon, No. 97 20 

Indian Song of Songs, No, 472 10 

India ; What can It Teach Us ? No, 130.26 

In l*urance Vile, by The Duchess 10 

In Peril of His Life. No. 129 20 

In Silk Attire, by Black, No. 188 ... .20 
Integral Co-operation, by A. K. Owen, 

No. 655 30 

lone Stewart, by Linton, No. 275 20 

Irene, by Carl Detlef, No. 29. 20 

Irish Sketches, etc., Thackeray, No. 292.20 

Ivanhoe, 2 Parts, No 145, each 13 

Jack, by A. Daudet, No. 613 20 

Jack Tier, by Cooper, No, 611 20 

Jane Eyre, by Bront6, No, 74 20 

Janet's Repentance, No. 149 10 

Jean Paul Friedrich Richter, No. 520. .10 
Jets and Flashes, by Lukens, No. 131 . . 20 
John Bull and His Daughters, No. 459.20 

John Bull and His Island, No. 336 20 

John Halifax, by Muiock, No. 33 20 

John Holdsworth, by Russell, No. 399,20 

John Sterling, by Cs»rlyle, No. 630 29 

Judith Shakespeare, by Wm, Black, 

No, 456 20 

Katherine Walton, by Simms, No. 657.30 

Keats' Poems, No, 531 • 25 

Kenelm Chillingly, No. 240 20 

Kenilworth, by Scott, No. 625 25 

Kilmeny, by Wm. Black, No. 180 2G 

King of the Golden River. No. 598 10 

Kttickerbocker History of New York, 

No. 236 20 

L'Abb6 Constantin, No, 15 20 

Labor and Capital, No. Ill 28 

Ladies Lindores, The, No. 124 20 

Lady Audiey's Secret. No, 104 20 

Lady Damer's Secret, Clay, No 701. 20 
Lady Silverdale's Sweetheart, No. 216. .10 

Lady of Lyons, No. 121 10 

Lady of the Lake, with Notes, No. 359.20 

Lalla Rookh, by T. Moore, No. 416 20 

Land Question, by Georae, No. 390 10 

Last Days of Pompeii. No. 59 20 

Last of the Barons, 2 Parts, No. 255, 

each 15 

Last of the Mohicans, The, No. 6 20 

Latter-Day Pamphlets, No. 633 20 

Lays of Ancient Rome, No. 833 20 

Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers, No. 351,20 



LOy ELL'S LIBRARY. 



lisctures on Architet-^are and Painting, • 

by Raskin, No. 537 15 

lectures on Art, Kuskin, No. 644 15 

Legend of ilontrose, by Scott, No. 49'115 

Leila, by Lord Lytton, No. 12 10 

Le3son^^ in Life, by Arthur, No. 579 15 

L;t Nothing You Dismaj', No. 103 10 

Letters from High Latitudes, No. 95.. .20 
!Life and Vovages of Cohimbus, 2 Parts, 

No. 199,' each 20 

XMq in the Wilds, No. 388 .15 

Life of J. Or. Blaine, No. 405^ 20 

Life of Bunyan, No. 348 10 

liife of Burke, by John Morley, No. 

407 : 10 

tiife of Burns, by Shairp, No. 334 10 

Life of Byron, No. 347 10 

Life of Chaucer, by Ward, No. 41S 10 

Life of Cowpcr, by Smith, No. 424 10 

Life of Cromwell, No. 73 15 

Life of Cromwell, Carlyle, Vol T.. No. 

643 25 

Life of Cromwell, Carlyle, Vol. II., No. 

6-16 25 

Life of Cromwell, Carlyle, VoL III., No. 

649 25 

Life of Defoe, by Minto, No. 377 10 

Life of Fredrika Bre;aer, No. 448 20 

Life of Q-iijbon, by Morison, No. 383 . . .10 

Life of G-rover Cleveland, No. 427 20 

Life of Heyne. by Carlyle, No. 525 15 

Life of Hume, No. 369 10 

Life of Johnston, by Stephen, No. 401.. 10 

Life of Paul Jones, No. 323 20 

Life of Locke, by Fowler, No. 380 10 

Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, No. 308, each. 15 

Life of Marion, No. 36 20 

Life of Milton, by Pattison, No. 3;)2. . . .10 

Life of Oliver Goldsmith, No. 310 20 

Life of Pope, No. 398 10 

Life of Schiller, bv Carlyle, No. 636. . . .20 

Life of Scott, by Hutton, No. 364 10 

Life of SUelley, by SymonJs, No. 361.. 10 
Life of Soathe^', by Dowden, No. 404.. 1) 

Life of Spenser, No. 431 10 

Life of Thackeray, No. 344 10 

Life of Washington, No. 26 20 

Life of W-ij»ter, 2 Part^. No. 248, each.15 

Life of Wordsworth, No. 410 10 

Light of Asia, bv Arnold. No. 436 20 

Lke Dian's Ki^s, by "Rita," No. 599.. 20 

Lionel Lincoln, by Cooper. No. 527 20 

Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, No. 223, each... 20 

Little Pilgrim, The, No. 179 10 

Longfellow's Poems, No. 482 20 

Lovel. the Widower, No. 156 10 

Love's Meinie, by Ruskin, No. 688 15 

Lijys, Lord Beresford, No. 126 20 

Loom and Lugger, No. 354 20 

Lord Lvnne'K Choice, Clay. No. 692.... 10 
Love Works Wonders, by B. M. Clay, 

No. 476 20 

Love's Harvest, Parjeon, No. 654 20 

Lucile, by Meredith. No. 331 20 

L'.icretia. bv Lvtton, No 253 20 

Luck of til e Darrells, Payn, No. 659 
.Macjpod of Dare. No. 93 



Madcap Violet. No. 178 20 

Maid of Athk-r.s. No. 278. 20 

Margaret and her Bridesmaids, No. 66 20 

M ark Sea worth, No. 322 20 

Married Life, by T. 3. Arthur, No. 518.15 



Martin Chuzzlewit, 2 Part^, No. 201, 
each 2fl 

Ma8ter Humphrey's Clock, No. 261 10 

Master of the Mine, Buchanan, No.696.10 

Meliichampe, by Simms, No. 648 30 

Men's Wives, No. 296. 10 

Men, Women, and Lovers, by Simcox, 

No. 513 2C 

Mercedes of Castile, by Cooper, No. 548.20 
Middlemarch, .2 Parts, No. 174, each.. .20 

Midshipman, The, No. 338 20 

Miles VVallingford. by Cooper, No. 539.. 20 
Mill on the Floss, 2 Parts, No. 207, each.15 
Miss Tommy, by Miss Mulock, No. 435.16 

Mistletoe Bough, Braddon, No. 698 20 

Modern Christianity a Civilized Hea- 
thenism^ No. 360 15 

Modern Painters, Vol. I., No. 565 20 

Modern Painters, Vol. II., No. 572. . . .,20 
Modern Paintfirs. Vol. IIL, No. 577.... 20 
Modern Painters, Vol. IV., No. 589 ... .25 

Modern Painters, Vol. V., No. 608 25 

Molly Bawn, No. 76 20 

Monarch of Mincing Lane, No. 232.... 20 

Monastery, by Scotr, No. 609 20 

Money, by Lord Lytton, No. 128 1(? 

Monica, by The Duchess, No. 86 1(1 

Monikins, The, by Cooper, No. 543 28 

Monsieur Lecoq, 2 Parts, No. 114, each.20 
Moonshine and Marguerite=, No. 133. ..10 
Moonstone, The, 2 Parts, Nos. 8 and 9, 

each .10 

Moore's Poems, No. 487 40 

Moorish C .ronicles. No. 314 10 

More Leaves from a Life in the High- 
lands, by Queen Victoria, No. 355.15 
More Words about the Bible, No. 113.. 20 
Mornings in Florence, Ruskin, No. 665.15 
Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., No. 218.. .10 
Mr. Scarborough's Family, 2 Parts, No. 

133, each 15 

Mrs. Darling's Letters, No. 260 20 

Mrs. Geoffrey, No. 90 20 

Mudfog Papers, The, etc.. No. 270 10 

Munera Pulveris, by Ruskin, No. 627.. .15 
Murders in the Rue Morgue, by Poe, No. 

447 15 

Mysterious Island, 3 Pts., No. 185, ea. ..15 

Mystery of Orci val, No. 155 20 

My.stery of Edwin Drood, No. 297 .20 

Mystic London, by Davies, No. 452 20 

My Lady's Money, Wilkie Collins, No. 

686 10 

My Novel, 3 Parts, No. 271, each 20 

My Roses, by L. V. French, No. 485 20 

Nabob, The, by A. Daudet, No. 645 25 

Narrative of A. Gordon Pym, No. 426.. 15 

Nautz Family, No. 191 .. .^ 20 

New Abelard. The, No. 318 20 

Newcomer, The, 2 Parts, No. 211, each.20 
New Magdaleh, by C^Uins, No. 21 . . . .20 
Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parts, No. 231, 

each 20 

Night and Morning, 2 Parts, No. 84, 

each 15 

20 t Nimporl-, No. 100, 2 Parts, each 15 

20 i NoL^tes Ambrosiaufe, by C. North, No. 



439 ..30 

No New Thing, No. 108 20 

No Thoroughfare, No. 302 10 

No. 99, by Arthur Griffiths, No. 706 .... 10 
Novels by Emineut Hands, No. <S00 ..... 10 



LOVELL'S LIBE/.±ir. 



Oak Openings, by Cooper, No. 562 20 

Off-Hand Sketches, by Arthur, No. 5S2.15 
Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, No. 144, 

Old Lady Mary.'by bViphantVNoV368. !l() 

Old Mortality, by Scott, No. 641 20 

Old Myddletou's Money, by Hay, No. 

690 20 

Oliver Goldsmith, by Black, No. 225.. . .10 

Oliver's Bride, by Oliphaut, No. G02 10 

Oliver Twist, by Dickens, No. 10 20 

One False, Both Fair, No. 269 20 

Other People's Money, No. 120 20 

*' Our Fathers Have Told Us," Ruskin, 

\ No. 679 15 

'Our Mutual Friend, 2 Parts, No. 228, 

each 20 

Outre-Mer, by Longfellow, No. 2 20 

Over the Summer Sea, No. 414 20 

Papa's Own Girl, by Marie Howlg,nd, No. 

534 SO 

Paradise Lost, by Milton, No. 389 20 

Paris Sketches, No. 229 .15 

Parisians, The, 2 Parts, No. 259, each. 20 

Partisan, The, by Siuims, No. 640 30 

Past and Present, No. 494 20 

Pathfinder, The, by Cooper, No. 305.... 20 

Paul and Virginia, No. 37 10 

Paul Clifford, by Lytton, No. 117 20 

Paul Vargas, by Conway, No. 617 10 

Pftusanias, by Lytton, No. 317 15 

Pe&rA of the Andes, by Aimard, No. 

5''3 10 

Pearls ot tbe F&ith, No. 455 15 

Pelham, by Lord Lytton, No. 176 20 

Pendennis, 2 Part-s No. 193, each 20 

Peter the Whaler, No. 254 20 

Peveril of the Peak, by Sc»tt, No. 509. .30 

Phantom Fortune, No. 2H .20 

Phyllis, by The Duchess, No. 78 20 

Picciola, by Saintine, No. 710 - 10 

Pickwick Papers, 2 Parts, No. 91, eac^.20 

Pictures from Italy. No. 234 If 

Pike County Folks, by Mott, No. lo9. . .20 

Pilgrims of the Rhine, No. 294 15 

Pilgi-im's Progress, The, No. 200 20 

Pillone, by W. Bergsoe. No. 77 15 

Pilot, by J. Fenimore Cooper, No. 501 . . 20 

Pioneer, by J. F. Cooper, No. 471 25 

Pirate, bv Sir Walter Scott, No. 515 20 

Pleasures of England, No. 639 10 

Plutarch's Lives, 5 Parts, No. 265, each.20 

Poe's Poems, No. 403 20 

Pole on Whist, No. 406 15 

Pope's Poems, No. 457 30 

Portia, by Tlio Duchess, No. 58 20 

Portraits of John Knox, No. 561 15 

Prairie, by J. P. Cooper, No. 467 20 

Precaution, by Cooper, No. 601 20 

Princess Napraxine, by Onida, No. 387.25 
Principles and Fallacies of Socialism, 

No. 533 15 

Privateersman, The, No. 212 20 

Procter's Poem=, No. 339 20 

Progress and Poverty, No. 52 20 

Promise of Marriage, No. 161 10 

Proserpina, by Buskin, No. 682 15 

Queen of the Air, by Ruskin, No. 516 . .T 

Queen of the County, No. 72. 20 

Quentin Durward, by Scott, No. 575. . . 20 
Quisisana, by P. Speilhagen, No. 449.. 20 
Eandom Shots, by Max Adeler, No, 295,20 



Rassclas, by Dr. Johnson, No. 44. ... «. 10 

Red Eric, The. No. 215 20 

Redgauntlet, by Scott, No. 544 25 

Redskins, by Cooper, No. 603 20 

Red Rover, by J. F. Cooper, No. 491 ... 80 

Repented at Leisure, No. 423 20 

Reprinted Pieces, No. 298 20 

Richard Hurdis, by Simms, No. 687 30 

Richelieu, by Lord Lytton, No. 152 10 

Rienzi. 2 Parts, No. 160, each 15 

Rifle and Hound in Ceylon, No. 227 20 

Right and Wrong Uses of the Bible, 

No. 83 20 

Rival Doctors?, by La Pointe, No. 445. . . 2C 

Robin, by Mrs. Parr, No. 42 20 

Robinson Crusoe, bv Defoe, No. 428 25 

Rob Roy, by Scott, No. 632 20 

Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid, by 

T. Hardy, No. 157 10 

Romola, 2 Parts, No. 79, each 15 

Rose and the Ring, The, No. 320 10 

Rossmoyne, by The Duchess, No. 284.. 20 

Roundabout Papers, No. 283 • . 20 

Round the World, No. 324 20 

Salmagundi, by Irving, No. 290 80 

Salt Water, No. 337 20 

Samuel Brohl & Co., No. 242 20 

Sartor Resartus, by Carlyle, No. 508.... 20 

Siitanstoe, by Cooper, No. 570 20 

Schiller's Poems, No. 341 20 

Science at Home, by Nichols, N<*. 375. .20 

Science in Short Chapters, No. .SO 20 

Scottish Chiefs, 2 Parts, by Jane Porter, 

No. 189, each 20 

Scott's Poetical Works, No. 6S6 30 

Scout, The, by Simms, Nj. 071 30 

Sea Lions, The, by Cooper, No. 553 20 

Second Thoughts, No. 2^3 20 

Secret Despatch, The, No. 49 20 

Seed-Time and Harvest, No. 563 15 

Seekers After God, No. 19 20 

Self-Help, by Samuel Smiles, No. 425.. 25 

Self or Bearer, Bosant, No. 699 10 

Selma, by Mrs. Smith, No. 65 15 

Serge--int'6 Legacy, Th*-, No. 366 20 

Sesamt, and Lilies, by Ruskin, No. 497.10 
Seven Lamps of Architecture, No. 521. .20 

Shadow of a Sip, by Clay, No. 691 10 

Shandon Bells, by Black, No, 85 20 

Shelley, Complete Works of. No. 649. . SO 

Sidonie, by A. Daudet, No. 604 20 

Signs of the Timet by Carlyle, No. 5^6.19 

Silas Marner, by (7. Eliot, No. 71 lO 

Sinarleheart and Doubleface, No. 28 10 

Sir Tom, by Mrs. Oliphant, No. 175 20 

Sketch-Book, The, No. 147 20 

Sketches and Travels in London, No. 

309 10 

Sketches by Boz, No. 273 20 

Sketches of Young Couples, No. 246. . . .10 
Slings and Arrows, Hugh Conway, No. 

672 10 

Socialism, No. 461 10 

Social Etiquette, No. 27 15( 

Social Problems, by George, No. 393,. .20' 

Sowers not Reapers, No. 39.5 15 

Somebody's Luggage, etc., No. 288 10 

Southward Ho ! by Simms, No. 662 30 

Spanish Gypsy, and others. No. 205 20 

Spanish Nun," The, No. 20 10 

Spanish Voyage, by Irving, No. 301.. ..80 
Spoopendyke Papers, The, No, JW W 



LOYELWB LIBRARY. 



Bpy, The, by Cooper, No. 53 20 

St. Mark's EeRt, Ruskin. No. 668 15 

Stones of Venice, 3 Vols., No. 54^, ea. . . 25 ' 
Stories for Parents, by Arthur, No. 554.15 
Stories for Young Housekeepers, by 

Arthur No. 5T4 15 

Story of a Sculpture, Hugh Conwaj'-, 

No. 667 10 

Story of Chinese G<)rdon, The, Mo. 371.20 

Story of Ida, The, No. 177 10 

Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, by 

William Black, No. 148 20 

St. Ronaus Well, by Scott, No. 586.... 20 

Studies in Civil Service, No. 535 15 

Swinburne's Poems, No. 412 20 

Sunrise, by Black, 2 Parts, No. 153, 

each 15 

Sunshine and Roses, by Clay, No. 458. .20 
Surgeon's Daughter, by Scott, No. 495.. 10 

Bwiss Family Robinson, No. 3S5 20 

Taine's English Literature, No. 442 40 

Tale of Two Cities, No. 38 20 

Tales of a Traveller, No. 198 20 

Tales of the French Revolution, by Mar- 

tineau, No. 353 15 

Tales of Two Idle Anprentices, No.437.15 

Talisman, The, by Scot*., No. 581 20 

Tartar! n of Tarascon, No. 478 20 

Tempest Tossed, 2 Parts, No. 94, each. .20 
Tennyson's Complete Poems, No. 446.. 40 
Thaddeus of Warsaw, by Jane Porter, 

No. 382 25 

That Beautiful Wretch, No. 182 20 

The Ghost's Touch, by Wilkie Collins, 

No. 683 10 

The Gilded Clique, No. 138 20 

The Lerouge Case, No. 116 20 

The Little Good-for-Nothing, No. 615.. 20 

Theophrastus Such, No. 202 10 

Tlieory of Whist, by Pole, No. 406 15 

The Two Dv.chesses, No. 60 20 

They were MaiTied, No. 18 10 

Thicker than Water, No. 187 20 

Three Feathers, The," No. 213 20 

Three Spaniards, The, No. 13 20 

Through the Looking- Glass, No. 481.. .20 

Time and Tide, Ruskin, No. 650 15 

Tinted Venus, by Anstey, No. 616 15 

Tom Brown at Oxford, by Thomas 

Hughes, 2 Parts, No. 186, each.. 15 

Tom Brown's School-Days, No. 61 20 

Tom Cringle's Log, No. 171 oO 

Toot of the World in Eighty Days, by 

Jules Verne, No. 154 20 

Tower of Percc.nont, No. 135 30 

Trail-Hunter, The, by Aimard, No. 567.10 
Tricks of the Greeks Unveiled, No. 14. .20 
Tried and Tempted, by Arthur, No. 

585 15 

Tritons. 2 Parts, No. 102, each 15 

Twice-Told Tales, No. 370 20 

Two Admirals, by Cooper, No. 484 20 

Two on a Tower, by Hardy, No. 43 20 

Two Patlis, by Ruskin, No. 642 20 

Two Wires, by T, S. Arthur, No. 507. .15 



Two Tears Before the Mast, No. 464. . .20 

Typhaines Abbey, No. 434 S6 

Uncommercial Traveller, No. 282 20 

Underground Russia, No. 173 20 

Under Two Flags, 2 Pts., No. 127, ea...20 

Under the Red Flag, No. 266 10 

Under the Will, by Mary Cecil Hay, No. 

466 10 

Undine, by Baron de la Motte Fouque, 

No. 711 10 

Unto this Last, by Ruskin, No. 623. . . .10 

Val d'Ai-no, by Ruskin, No. 6S5 15 

Valerie's Fate, No. 349 14 

Vanity Fair, No. 172 3fl[ 

Vasconselos, by Sinmis, No. 677 30? 

Vendetta, The, by Balzac, No. 63 20 

Vic, by A. Benrimo, No. 470 15 

Vicar of Wakefield, No. 51 10 

Vice Versll, by Anstey, No. 30 20 

Virgil, Works of. No. 540 26 

Virginians, The, 2 Parts, No. 238, 

each 20 

Voltaire and Novalis, No. 528 15 

Wanda, 2 Parts, No. 112, each 15 

Water Witch, by Cooper, No. 488 20 

Ways of Providence, by Arthur, No. 538.15 
Ways of the Hour, by Cooper, No. 581 . 20 
Wedded and Parted. B.M. Claj', No.695.10 

Wept of Wish-ton- Wish, No. 529 20 

What Will He Do With It ? by Lytton, 

2 Parts, No. 245, each 20 

When the Ship Comes Home, No. 268.10 

Whist, or Bumblepuppy ? No. 181 10 

White Heather, by Wm. Black, No. 67.820 

White Wings, by Black, No. 146 20 

Whittier's Poems, No. 450 20 

Widow Bedott Papers, No. 194 20 

Wigwam and Cabin, by Simms, No. 674.30 

Willis' Poems, No. 352 '. 20 

Willy Reilly, by Carleton, No. 190 20 

Wing and Wing, by Cooper, NO. 506 20 

Winifred Power, No. 315 20 

Wise Women of Inverness, No. 584 1'" 

Wizard's Son, The, No. 326 2 

Wolfert's Roost and Miscellanies, No. 

321 10 

Woman, by August Bebei, No. 712 30 

Woman against Woman,by Mrs.Holmes, 

No. 709 20 

Woman's Place To-Day, NO. 105 20 

Woman's Trials, by Arthur, No. 506 20 

Woodcraft, by Simms, No, 684 30 

Woodstock, by Sir Walter Scott, No. 551.20 
Wooing O't, The, 2 Parts, No. 62, each. 15 
Words for the Wise, by Arthur, No. 568.15 

Wrecks in the Sea of Life, No. 433 20 

Wyandotte, bv Cooper, No. 512 20 

Yellowplush Papers, No, 307 10 

Yemassee, The, by Simms, No. 653 30 

Yolande, by Wm. Black, No. 136 20 

Young Foresters, The, No. 335 20 

Zanoni, by Lytton. No. 81 20 

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, No. 166.90 
800 Leagues on the Amazon, No. 34 ... 10 



" The enduring monuments , of Fenitnore Cooper are his 
works. While the love of country co7itinues to prevail^ his 
memory will exist in the hearts of the people. So truly 
patriotic and Anierican throughout, they should find a place 
in every American s library.''' — Daniel Webster. 




LIBRARY EDITION. 

Well printed from new plates on good paper. Com- 
plete in 32 volumes, i2mo. Price per volume, 
paper, 20 cents ; cloth, 35 cents. 



1. 


The Spy. 


17. 


Wing-and-Wing. 


2. 


The Pilot. 


18. 


Oak Openings. 


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Lovell's Library, Paper, 20 cts. ; cloth, 35 cts. 

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LOVELL'S LIBRARY. 



■364 At Bay, by Mrs. Alexander 10 

6fi5 Mornings in Florence, by Iluskin..l5 
66) Barbara's Rival, by Ernest Young 20 
QfH Story of a Sculptor, by Conway.. .lU 
66 S St. Mark s Rest, by John Ruskin. .15 

669 Hilda, by Bertha M. Clay 10 

6T0 Deucalion, by Ruskin 10 

671 The Scout, by Simms CS 

G7'2 Slings and Arrows, by Conway 10 

673 Art of England, by Ruskin 1.5 

674 The Wigwam and Cabin, by Simms.oO 

675 A Rainy June, by Ouida 10 

676 Eagle's Nest, by Ruskin 15 

677 Vasconselos, by Simms 30 

678 White Heather, by Black. . 20 

679 Our Fathers have Told Us, Ruskin.l5 

680 Confession, by Simms 30 

681 A Girton Girl, by Mrs. Edwards. . .20 
6S2 Proserpina, bv Ruiskin 15 

683 The Gho-st's Touch, by Collins. .. .10 

684 Woodcraft, by Simms 30 

685 Val d' Arno, by Ruskin 15 

686 My Lady's Money, by Collins 10 

687 Richard Hurdis, by Simm? 30 

688 Love's Meinie, by Ruskin 15 

689 Her Martyrdom, by B. M. Clay. . .20 

690 Gny Rivers, by Simms 30 

691 A Woman's Honor, by Young 20 

692 Lord Lynne's Choice, B. M. Clay.. 10 

693 Border Beagles, bv W. G. Simms.. 80 

694 The Shadow of a Sin, B. M. Clay. .10 

695 Wedded and Parted, by B. M. Clay.lO 

696 The Master of the Mine,Buchanan.lO 

697 The Forayers, by Simms 30 

698 The Mistletoe Bough,M.E.Braddon.20 

699 Self or Bearer, Walter Besant. . . .10 

700 In Cupid's Net, by B. M. Clay 10 

701 Lady Damer's Secret, B. M. Clay. .20 

702 Charlemont, by W. G. Simms 30 

703 Eutaw, by W. G. Simms 30 

704 Evolution, Rev. C. F. Deems, D.D.20 

705 Beauchampe, by W. G. Simms 30 

706 No. 99, by Arthur Griftiths 10 

707 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P't I. 30 

708 Fors C'avigera, by Ruskin. P't II.. 30 

709 Woman against Woman. by Holmes . 20 

710 Picciola, by J. X. B. Saintine 10 

711 Undine, by Baron de la Motte 

Fouque 10 

712 Woman, by August Bebel 30 

713 Foi-3 Clavigera, by Ruskin, P't III. 30 

714 Fors Clavigera, by Ruskin. P't IV.30 

715 A Cardinal Sir., by Hugh Conway. 20 

716 A Crimson Stain, Annie Bradshaw. 20 

717 ACountryGentleman,Mrs.Oliphant.20 

718 A Gilded Sin, by B. M. Clay 10 

719 Rory O'More, by Samuel Lover 20 

720 Between Two Loves, B. M. Clay. . .20 

721 Ladv Branksmere, by The Duchess. 20 

722 The Evil Genius, bv Wilkie Collins.20 
72 i Running the Gauntlet, by Yates. . .20 

724 Broken to Harne.'s, Edmund Yatep.20 

725 Dr. Wilmer's Love, Margaret Lee.. 25 

726 Austin Eliot, by Henry Kingsley..20 



727 For Anotker's Sin, by B. M. Clay. .20 

728 TheHillyars and Burtons, Kingsley20 

729 In Prison and Out, by Stretton 20 

730 Romance of a Young Girl, by Clay.20 

731 Leighton Court, by Kingsley 20 

7i2 Victory Deane, by Cecil Griffith. .20 

733 A Queen amongst Women, by Clay .10 

734 Vineta, by E. Werner. . , 20 

735 A Mental Scruggle, The Duche.-s..20 
7j6 Geoffrey Hamlyn, by H. King.-^ley. ^O 

737 The Haunted Chamber, "Duche8s''.10 

738 A Golden Dawn, by B. M. Clay. ... 10 

739 Like no Other Love, byB. M. Clay.lO 

740 A Bitter Atonement, by B. M. Clay.20 

741 Lorinaer and Wife, by Margaret Lee.20 

742 Sociiil Solutions No. 1, by Howland.lO 

743 A Woman's Vengeance, by Holmes. 20 

744 Evelyn's Folly, by B. M. Clay 20 

745 Living or Dead, by Hugh Conway.. 20 

746 Beaton's Bargain, Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

747 Social Solutions, No. 2, by Howland.lO 

748 Our Roman Palace, by Benjamin.. .20 

749 Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy. 20 

750 Somebody's Story,by Hugh Conway.lO 

751 King Arthur, by Miss Mulock 20 

752 Set in Diamonds, by B. M. Clay.. . .20 

753 Social Solutions, No. 3, by Howland.lO 

754 A Modern Midas, by Maurice Jokai.20 

755 A Fallen Idol, by F. Anstey 20 

756 Conspiracj^ by Adam Badeau.... .25 
7.57 Doris' Fortune, by F. Warden 10 

758 Cynic Fortune, by D. C. Murray... 10 

759 Foul Play, by Chas. Reade 20 

760 Fair Women, by Mrs. Forrester 20 

701 Count of Monte Cristo, Part I., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

762 Social Solutions, No. 4, by Howland.lO 

763 Moths, by Ouida 20 

764 A Fair Mystery, by Bertha M. Clay.20 

765 Social Solutions, No. 5, by Howland.lO 

766 Vixen, by Miss Brt. Idon , .20 

767 Kidnapped, by R. L. Stevenson... 20 

768 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde, by R. L. Stevenson. 10 

769 Prince Otto, by R. L. Stevenson. . 10 

770 The Dynamiter, by R. L. Stevens»n.20 
77.^ The Old Mam'selle'a Secret, by E. 

Marlitt 20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, Part I., by Sue.20 

772 Mj-steries of Paris, Part II., by Sue.20 

773 Put Yourself in His Place, by Reade 20 

774 Social Solutions, No. 6, by Howland.lO 

775 The Three Guardsmen, by Dumas. 20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part I., by Sue.20 

776 The Wandering Jew. Part II., by Sue.20 

777 A Secon(^ Life, by Mrs. Alexander. 20 

778 Social Solutions. iSTo. 7, by Howland.lO 

779 My Friend Jim, by W. E. Norris ..'A) 

780 Bad to Beat, by Hawley Smart. . . 10 

781 Betty's Visions, by Broughton . . . .15 
7S2 Social Solutions, No. 8, by Howland.lO 
783 The Octoroon, by Miss Braddon....lC 



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PIANOFORTES 

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